


The World Devours Me

by Varkelton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bonding, Burnplay, Claiming, Confined/Caged, Dream Sex, Dreams, Dubious Consent, Genital Torture, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Injury, M/M, Marking, Painplay, Piercings, Psychological Torture, Rape, Restraints, Rimming, Ritualistic Sex, Scarification, Sensory Deprivation, Sleep Deprivation, Sounding, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 81,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varkelton/pseuds/Varkelton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thought he was doing the right thing when he let Sam walk away from hunting.....away from <i>him</i>. Sam thought the separation was nothing more than he deserved. They both thought Castiel had found a way to keep Lucifer from finding them. Neither one of them knew how wrong they really were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [](http://varkelton.livejournal.com/42128.html)   
>    
> 
> 
> **Artist** : [ **Raggedy_edge** ](http://raggedy-edge.livejournal.com/)  
> **Rating** : NC-17  
>  **AN** : Cannon through the end of 5.03. Goes AU from there. No spoilers for anything unaired. This story is based on a combination of two prompts from [ **SPNkink_meme** ](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/) ([ **Here** ](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com./25027.html?thread=5840579#t5840579) and [ **Here** ](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/25027.html?thread=5875651#t5875651)). 

**Prologue**

Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel and he gritted his teeth against the silence that had descended as soon as they’d gotten in the car. The music wasn’t enough to fill the space, and he abruptly turned it off. He cast a sidelong look at Sam when his brother didn’t react.

Sam was still looking out the window – had been ever since they’d gotten on the road – eyes riveted on the passing scenery. The awkward silence stretched on, Sam’s long, heavy sigh the only break in the oppressive stillness.

The memory of Sam looking at the blood covered knife with longing hit Dean in the gut for the fiftieth time that day. He couldn’t get past the image, and Sam wasn’t talking about it. Or at least, his little brother seemed to think that blanket apologies should wipe out everything that had happened between them. Sam seemed to think that Dean should somehow just trust that Sam wasn’t going to slip back into his addiction now, but it wasn’t like they could retire and Sam could go into an AA program and talk about his feelings. Sam was supposed to be the smart one. He knew what he was risking, but kept doing it anyway.

Misery radiated off of Sam as he moved restlessly in his seat.

Dean got it, got that Sam felt guilty for his colossal fuck-up, got that Sam needed someone to give him absolution, but Dean’s shoulders were already carrying too fucking much. When did he get to put his foot down and say, for once, ‘you’re going to have to carry this one on your own for a while, Sam?’

He loved his brother. That wasn’t even a question. His first instinct would always be to protect Sam, and, when that wasn’t enough, to fix it when things went wrong. It was just… Dean didn’t think fixing Sam’s mistake would really help this time. In fact, maybe the heart of the problem was that Dean always fixed Sam’s mistakes, and that’s what allowed Ruby to get her claws into Sam in the first place. Maybe at this point, his determination to protect his brother was more weakness than strength.

Sam shifted once more, this time casually pressing a hand against his crotch. Dean smirked to himself – kid had to pee and was stubbornly not saying anything because he didn’t want to be the first to break the silence. Bullheaded to the point of self-destruction – that was his brother.

A rest stop was coming up on the right, so he took pity on Sam and pulled into it. As soon as he put the car in park, Sam slipped out, casting Dean a pensive look before slinking off to the restrooms.

Fuck. Sam was going to make them have another road-side chat. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It never did any good anyway. All it did was stir stuff up that didn’t have any chance of being fixed.

Whatever Sam needed, it was becoming increasingly obvious to Dean that he just didn’t have it to give anymore. Maybe he was different before hell; maybe Cas hadn’t actually been able to pull all of him back. Dean wasn’t sure, but the person he’d been 40 years ago was a pretty distant memory. He knew he’d thought at the time that the sacrifice would be worth it, but he was beginning to think he’d been just a little bit naive. 

Dean watched him go and then got out of the car, walking a circuit around the area to stretch his legs. Halfway around, and obscured by the restrooms, he paused by a tree and leaned against it, listening to the soothing sound of traffic speeding by on the highway.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Motor oil and gasoline mingled with the smell of pine supplied by the lightly wooded area. Smelled like home. Dean knew he was being hard on his brother, but, what did Sam expect? He’d always put Sam first. Always. He pulled out his flask and took a long swig, not enough to effect his driving, but enough to take the edge off his emotional fatigue.

There really wasn’t anything to discuss. Unless Sam was willing to admit that he needed help, serious help – not just forgiveness – Dean was going to have to watch him like a hawk to make sure he didn’t slip up. Sam was way more liability than back-up at this point. Somehow, Dean was going to have to pick up the slack, and find a way to stop the apocalypse at the same time. _No fucking problem_. With a heavy sigh of his own, he slipped his flask back into his pocket and headed back towards the parking lot.

Sam was sitting at one of the tables by the time Dean made his way back, and he slid onto the bench opposite. He pulled out War’s ring, wondering what they should do next. “So,” he started casually, “pit stop at Mount Doom?”

Sam was clearly still in brood mode. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, “Dean…”

“Sam,” Dean interrupted, “Let’s not.” Rehashing the same things over and over really wasn’t going to help anybody. The only thing it was likely to do was make it harder for Dean to keep sticking around.

“No, listen. This is important. I know you don't trust me.”

Dean looked away and nodded slightly – understatement of the year.

“Just, now I realized something. I don't trust me either.”

Dean looked back at Sam, more than a little surprised that Sam was actually acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“From the minute I saw that blood, the only thought in my head...” Sam looked away, shaking his head self-consciously. “…and I tell myself it's for the right reasons, my intentions are good, and it, it feels true, you know?”

Sam sounded so sincere in his self-delusion, Dean had to look away. A part of him didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want what he believed to be true so completely confirmed. It still ripped at his gut, left him sickened at everything they’d lost.

“But I think, underneath...I just miss the feeling. I know how messed up that sounds, which means I know how messed up I am. Thing is, the problem's not the demon blood, not really. I mean, I, what I did, I can't blame the blood or Ruby or...anything. The problem's me. How far I'll go. It's something that means...” Sam floundered with his words for a moment, and Dean almost had time to wonder if Sam was done before Sam went right back to his default – his tone implying that Dean needed to be the one to fix this, to play rescuer again. “It scares the hell out of me, Dean. In the last couple of days, I caught another glimpse...”

Dean finally managed to drag his eyes back to Sam’s. More words. He still wasn’t sure what Sam’s point was. “So, what are you saying?”

“That I'm in no shape to be hunting. I need to step back, 'cause I'm dangerous. Maybe it's best we just...go our separate ways.”

It had crossed Dean’s mind, he had to admit that if he was honest with himself, even if he hadn’t truly voiced the idea to himself – he hadn’t been able to give himself permission for that but Sam had just... It was… this was hard, his eyes were stinging, and he could feel anxious sweat trickling down his back. Sam leaving, again, was never anything he had thought he would ever want, but… “Well, I think you're right.”

Sam looked a little floored, and Dean felt helpless anger prickle over his skin once more. Impotent rage seemed to be his constant companion as of late, at least when he wasn’t feeling numb. What the hell had Sam expected when he said what he did? He really seemed to think that Dean would always be here to fix his mistakes, protect him from the consequences of his actions.

“I was expecting a fight,” Sam replied softly, hurt and disappointment spilling from his eyes.

Dean forced himself to stay strong, to not crumble under the pressure of Sam’s needs this time. “The truth is, I spend more time worrying about you than about doing the job right. And I just, I can't afford that, you know? Not now.”

Sam looked away, nodded. It looked like his heart was being torn out, and Dean was halfway to taking his words back before he pulled himself up short. It was ingrained, this stupid, selfless need to take care of Sam, no matter what. He just… couldn’t do it anymore.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” Sam said, anguish painted clearly across his face.

Sam could say that another thousand times and it wouldn’t fix anything. “I know you are, Sam,” he responded gruffly.

Sam turned, started to pull his long legs free of the picnic table, and Dean was calling Sam back before he could stop himself, flailing for words. “Hey, do you, uh, wanna take the Impala?” He didn’t know why, but it seemed like the right thing to offer, even though his stomach twisted at the thought of Sam saying yes.

“It's okay,” Sam replied, and Dean was pretty sure he managed to keep his relief off his face.

Sam stood and took a few steps away before turning back with a heartfelt, “Take care of yourself, Dean.”

“Yeah, you too, Sammy.”

Dean watched Sam move swiftly to the Impala, grab his backpack out of the back seat, and walk over to a nearby pickup truck. Sam must have turned on the kicked-puppy look full force because almost immediately he was getting into the passenger side of the truck.

It was killing Dean, just sitting there and watching the truck drive off with his brother. Half of him wanted to make a mad dash to the Impala and chase his brother down like in one of those high-speed car chases he’d watched in countless late-night movies growing up. Of course, the hero’s car never came off so good in those things… but his baby could probably bring it.

 _“I don't trust me either.”_

Sam’s words rang through Dean’s head like condemnation. Sam had finally admitted he had a problem, but that didn’t mean Sam’s addiction wasn’t Dean’s failure. He’d sworn to Bobby that he wouldn’t let Sam turn into a monster. _Bang up job there, asshole…_

 _“The problem's me. How far I'll go.”_

Dean could feel an uncomfortable burn in his eyes, and he couldn’t just sit there anymore. He pushed himself away from the table, and his hand was on the handle of the Impala before he’d thought out what he was doing. _Damn it_. He slammed his hands on the roof and rested his head on them.

He wanted, _needed_ Sam by his side, but _Sam_ , the Sam that had been Dean’s constant source of strength when he’d been in hell, the one that had actually heard Dean when Dean pleaded with him not to listen to that demon bitch, _that_ Sam… was gone.

In his place was a man who, at the end of the day, couldn’t be trusted to watch Dean’s back. Sam was right; he was in no shape to be hunting. He was dangerous and separating was probably the best thing for everyone, the world included.

The lost look Sam had worn when he apologized _again_ had ripped Dean’s heart out. The need to wipe that look from Sammy’s face was instinctive, but, he couldn’t help admit – even if just to himself – that he was a little bit relieved to finally be on his own.


	2. Part One

**Part One**

“Oh, Steve's good,” Tim replies to Sam conversationally, although the half mad gleam in his eye doesn’t dim in the slightest. He continues with a chuckle in his voice, “He's, uh… his guts are lying roadside outside the Hawley five and dime.”

The final words slam into Sam’s stomach like a knife, more guilt – more blood – on his conscience. It’s too much to process and he swallows, shifts, manages to get one more worthless apology past his lips, “I’m sorry.”

Tim replies quickly, threateningly, “Sorry don't cut it, Sam.”

It’s all he’s got though. There’s nothing he can do to take everything back. “Well, what do you want me to say?”

“The truth,” Tim spits back.

Sam looks at the hunter in confusion, knowing there’s no way the man could be asking what he seems to be. The thought of everyone knowing what he did rips at him, closes up his throat and renders him mute.

“Okay, fine. Let me give you some of my own, then. We go into town. We capture ourselves a demon. We get jumped by ten more. Steve bought it.”

Sam shouldn’t be surprised. Staying out of the fight - he was mostly pretty sure that was the right decision, except, just like every other decision he’s ever made, it ended up getting someone else hurt, someone else dead. He’s already apologized, but he doesn’t have anything else. “I'm sorry,” he repeats, willing the man to accept his sincerity.

Tim dismisses it easily, “Saying it twice don't make it so, Sam. But you see, this demon, he, uh, he told us things. Crazy things.” Tim’s light, easy tone drops, abruptly turns menacing. “Things about you, Sam.”

And there it is, his most shameful secret spilling forth for everyone to see. “Demons lie,” he says quickly, desperately, praying for Tim to just let it go.  
    
“Yeah?” Tim nods, like he’s considering it, and Sam nods back with bravado he suspects he doesn’t quite sell.

“I'm gonna ask you one last time. The truth,” Tim orders threateningly. “Now.”

The sudden sound of the door chime rips Sam’s eyes away from Tim only to find Reggie hauling Lindsey inside roughly. Her soft sounds of distress ring loudly, accusingly against the quiet of the empty bar. “Lindsey!” he gasps in alarm.

Reggie brings a large knife up to Lindsey’s neck, his intention clear. She flinches back from it with a soft gasp. “What's going on?” she demands, turning her eyes sharply on Sam.

 _These are **hunters**_ , Sam thinks, outraged. _What the hell?_ His mind races, trying to keep up. He’s not sure how the fuck this got out of hand so quickly. “Just take it easy, okay?” he says, desperately trying to sound reasonable enough to diffuse the situation. “Put the knife down.”

Tim looks over to Reggie and gives a slight nod. Slowly, the knife is lowered and placed on the bar, but Reggie doesn’t take his hand off of the girl. The threat is still clear.

“It's true,” Sam chokes out. “What the demons said, it's all true.”

The admission kills something in Sam, but it isn’t enough. Tim looks at Sam calmly and says, “Keep going…”

“Why?” Sam asks, the self-loathing roiling in his stomach exhausting him. _What the hell is this crazy ass trying to accomplish?_ “You gonna hate me any less? Am I gonna hate _myself_ any less?” The anger that never seems to leave him flares slightly, and despite his concern for Lindsey, he doesn’t think, just bites out, “What do you want?”

“I want to hear you say it,” Tim snaps back.

Sam stares at the man, anguish shredding him up inside. He wants this to all just be fucking over. He _wants_ to just walk out of the bar and the world be damned, except… he can’t stand back and let another innocent person get hurt because of his screw-ups. Lindsey is still looking at him with horrified eyes, and even though all her sympathy and kindness will disappear once she knows, he can’t leave her to these madmen. Not even he is that selfish.

“I did it,” he admits, shame burning his eyes. “I started the apocalypse.”

Tim nods slightly, Sam’s words clearly confirming what he already believes. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out something that glints darkly in the low light.

Sam can’t see what it is, but suddenly, he _knows_. Fear claws at his throat; the demons spilled all his darkest secrets out, leaving his soul bare and naked, exposed. “What is that?” The words slip from his lips, helplessly begging the man to deny the knowledge that’s already twisting through his heart.

“What do you think it is?” Tim says softly. Sam can’t help rocking on his feet, looking around for a place to run. “It's go juice, Sammy boy.”

Desire blooms on his tongue, and he can’t deny the part of himself that’s shouting at him to take it and swallow it down _now_. All his resolve, what little strength he thought he had deserts him, but he forces out with false bravado, “Get that away from me.”

“Away from you? This _is_ for you,” Tim says, stepping closer and forcing Sam to back away pathetically. “Hell if that demon wasn't right as rain. Down the hatch, son.”

Fuck, didn’t the man hear Sam just admit that he started the fucking apocalypse with that shit? “You're insane,” he growls.

“Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna drink this, hulk out…” The sound of cuffs vie for Sam’s attention; Reggie’s handcuffing Lindsey to the bar. Sam looks between the two men, unable to decide where to devote his focus. Tim keeps right on talking, “…and you're gonna waste every one of those demon scum that killed my best friend.” Calmly, he nods towards Lindsey. “Or she dies.”

“You wouldn't do that,” Sam grates, outrage coloring his statement with anger.

“It's funny how watching your best friend die changes that.”

Both men advance on him threateningly, forcing Sam to back away. He wants to run, but he’s defenseless under the pull of the blood.

Tim can clearly sense his advantage and continues to taunt him, “Come on, you know you want it, Sam. Just reach out and take it.”

Reggie telegraphs his move a mile away, and when he charges, Sam catches him, throwing him down on the pool table. Sam slams his fist into the man’s face, stunning him.

Hoping to take Reggie out of the fight for good, Sam presses his advantage and pulls his arm back for another punch. Tim’s arms wrap around him before he can complete the swing. The firm grip pulls him away from Reggie and yanks him down to land heavily on the floor.

Sam elbows Tim in the face, but he can tell he’s losing the fight. Reggie’s already back, restraining Sam and forcing his mouth open. Everything is happening way too fast, and terror keeps him from fighting back effectively as Tim pours the blood into his mouth.

Warm strength and power explode over his tongue, and, God, he wants to swallow more than he wants to breathe – wants to revel in the raw feeling of righteousness that the demon blood promises. He flails against himself for a moment, searching for something, anything to hold onto…

Dean’s face floats behind his closed eyelids. That crushed, distant expression on the face of the one man Sam’s always looked up to locks his throat closed. He doesn’t swallow - he _can’t_ swallow - he can’t risk betraying his brother again, even if Dean would probably never know.

Reggie’s hand stays over Sam’s mouth for a few moments, but the hunters are so confident they have him, so _afraid_ of him, that they back away far too soon. Sam’s too shaken to gloat. He struggles to get up as the two men watch him eagerly. He’s still staggering up when Tim asks breathlessly, impatiently, “There, was that really so bad?”

Fierce, intense hatred wells up in Sam; these stupid bastards have no idea, _none at all_ , what they almost did. He gathers the blood rolling over his tongue and spits it out forcefully, landing a direct hit in Tim’s eye.

Tim frantically rubs at his eye, and Reggie’s swing, when it comes, is easily blocked. Sam brings a knee up hard against Reggie's stomach and kicks him away just in time to send Tim crashing over a table with a roundhouse to the face. Victory washes over him; he’s gonna take these bastards out this time and send them packing out of the bar with their tails between their legs.

“Hey, Sam,” the words are low and calm. Sam turns in slow-motion, dread creeping up his back. Reggie’s standing there, gun drawn and pointed steadily at Lindsey’s head.

The girl is looking around at all three of them as if she’s the only sane one in the room, and Sam certainly can’t blame her. He can feel the demon blood trickling, itching, across his face. The smell is making his stomach clench in anticipation. If he doesn’t wash it off soon, he’s afraid of what he might get it in his head to do, but he’s too scared to move. Lindsey’s at least partially right; sanity seems to have left both of the other hunters for greener pastures.

“Do you understand who’s in control now, Sam?” Tim asks. The menacing words jerk Sam’s attention away from the girl... from his friend. At least, she’d be his friend if he could have let her be, if evil didn’t touch everyone he’s ever met, touch everything he’s ever done.

Sam nods shakily. “What do you want? I already admitted to everything you wanted me to. Even if what you tried...” he sucks in a shuddering breath to settle himself before he can continue, “Even if that could have worked, I can’t bring your friend back, Tim.”

Tim prowls towards Sam, and he can’t help backing up until he hits the wall. The man keeps coming, pressing right up into his personal space. “Steve’s dead,” Tim growls, his voice low and threatening, filled with anger and grief.

“I know, but that’s...”

Tim cuts Sam off, talking right over him, “Steve’s dead, and somebody needs to pay for that. And it was _your fault_ , you ball-less piece of cowardly shit. _All_ of this is your fault. You think you can just step back out of the fight when you’re the one who started it?” Tim’s hand snaps up and wraps around Sam’s neck, squeezing tightly.

Sam reaches up and wraps a hand around Tim’s wrist, ready to snap it into pieces, but a quiet, “Uh, uh, uh…” from Reggie freezes him in place. The hand holding the gun hasn’t wavered.

He coughs around the strong, choking grip, struggling to draw in a breath. Tim steps in close enough that Sam can feel the movement of air across his face as Tim breathes. Eyes more than half-full of crazy, Tim snarls, “How ‘bout we do something personal to you, you stupid, selfish prick? Something that will get you back in the fight.”

The hand is getting steadily tighter. Sam’s starting to get a little light-headed from lack of air when Tim pushes down, forcing Sam to slide to the floor. At least when Sam lands on his knees, Tim releases his grip. Sam’s hands fly to his throat protectively, and he sucks air into his gasping lungs, so relieved to be breathing again that he manages to lose track of the situation for a moment.

Lindsey’s soft whimper jolts him back to the present, and he snaps his head up to look at her. Reggie’s taken a step closer to her, close enough that she could disarm him... if she was trained, if her hands weren’t locked to a fucking pipe.

“Sam,” Tim calls with the same casual tone he’d used at the beginning of the confrontation. Sam looks up at the man, letting his loathing for the hunter show. The man is leaning slightly forward, his crotch directly in Sam’s line of sight, one hand braced against the wall. He runs the other tightly through Sam’s hair, forcing Sam’s head back until he has to arch back with it to keep his neck from straining. “I want you to undo my pants now.”

“What? No, you sick pervert!” Sam yells. He jerks back in disgust, but only succeeds in getting Tim's grip to tighten painfully in his hair.

Hoping against hope that Tim’s words have thrown Reggie off his game, Sam looks over at him, but Reggie’s focus hasn’t wavered. He manages to keep his gun arm steady as he backhands Lindsey with his other. She sobs against the bar, tight and heavy, but cuts it off and quickly regains herself, her cocky self-assurance finally making a show as she glares insolently back at her attacker. “Leave him alone, you slimy fuck!” she hisses. Reggie’s light smirk is her only response; the hunter is not going to be distracted.

“A life for a life,” Tim sing-songs coldly. “You obviously care about the girl, so either you play the game, or it’s her life for Steve’s. What’ll it be, Sammy boy?”

“Don’t you fucking call me Sammy!” Sam growls instinctively.

Tim’s hand yanks sharply on Sam’s hair, and he leans down until their faces are just inches apart. “What. Will. It. Be?” he growls.

Lindsey’s mouth is pressed against her upper arm, her eyes are locked on Sam, and she’s clearly trying to hold in her fear, but she can’t help the low whimper that escapes.

They’re going to kill her if he doesn’t do this; that much is pretty clear. Not the first sacrifice on his head in what is bound to become a long, long line, all because of what he did. Or failed to do…

 _What you’re being asked to do? It’s really nothing you don’t deserve._ The thought sickens him, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Fuck. He’d been so arrogant, thinking he could make his life worth something. He’s the only one who hadn’t seen his actions for what they were. His head is throbbing, making it hard to think, but he can hear his inner child screaming over the din that it isn’t fair, he’d done the best he could, tried so hard to stop any of this from happening.

Yeah, life isn’t fair. Suck it up, asshole. You’d have thought he’d have learned his lesson before now.

He reaches up and tears Tim’s pants open roughly; he might be giving in, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to hide his anger. _Dean went through worse than this in hell,_ he thinks. _Way worse... You should be able to handle this no problem._

“Boxers too,” Tim mutters.

 _You couldn’t stop Dean from being raped and tortured for 40 years. Couldn’t save him, couldn’t avenge him. You’re a useless waste of space. Worse than that. Your attempts to fix everything damned the entire fucking world. This thing Tim is demanding you do isn’t even a drop in the bucket compared to what you owe._

A small voice, the tiny shattered bit of his remaining self-esteem, defends himself, an almost whisper-soft rebuttal - _You’re doing it to save the girl._

He knows it’s a lie though, deep down in the depths of his soul, he knows he’s doing this because he deserves it - because God and all the angels and his father and even his brother hate him now.

Pay-back’s a bitch. Sam laughs loudly, frantically, as he pulls the boxers down to reveal Tim’s shriveled, uninterested dick. Even unaroused, up this close the size of it’s intimidating. Sam risks a nervous glance up. “You aren’t even into this, Tim," he says softly. “Why don’t we find another game to play?”

“Guess you got your work cut out for you then,” Tim chuckles. His tone darkens, the threat overflowing, “Get to work. Wanna see you open wide, slut. This is only the beginning.” Tim thrusts forward, grazing Sam’s lips with his dick. The skin is soft and slightly damp, and he doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, because the musky smell of the man is not as unappealing as it should be.

Sam can feel himself shattering, breaking apart into a million little pieces, but with a single, last look at Lindsey, he closes his eyes and opens his mouth.

Tim’s gone still, waiting, and Sam has to force himself to move forward enough to make the first contact. Pushing his tongue out, he licks up the underside of Tim’s cock. The skin is loose, moving easily under his touch. Tim lets out a loud, pornographic moan that almost causes Sam to push the asshole away, but he can’t. This is his debt to pay.

“Hurry it up, slut.” Tim growls, so low it’s almost like a purr, a mixture of desire and anticipation.

He inhales and closes his lips around the soft flesh, letting his tongue seek out the slit to rest there while he teases with his lips. Tim twitches inside his mouth, but still isn’t hardening much. Not that he’s ever allowed himself to think about it, but this is nothing like he thought a blow job would be like.

“Come on, come on...” Tim whispers against the wall. “Reggie?” Tim mutters.

Immediately, there’s the hard smack of flesh striking flesh. The soft, wounded, feminine sound that follows makes Sam’s protective instincts drive his heart rate up painfully. He’s essentially helpless in this position. They could kill Lindsey before he even knew they’d decided to do it.

He opens his mouth wider and takes all of Tim into his mouth, mostly successful in protecting the skin from his teeth with his lips. Tim pushes forward and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. Sam’s tongue flutters against the cock, frantic to push it out of his mouth, and Tim groans against the wall. “You do anything to make me regret this and the girl dies,” Tim moans.

 _Don’t you think you should’ve said something **before** you shoved your cock in my mouth, asshole?_ Sam snarks to himself, a stupid attempt to make himself feel better about what’s happening to him... what he’s allowing to happen to him.

Sam sucks it in hard, nursing it like a breast, except he can’t even begin to convince his brain that a woman’s curves are anything like this is. He licks around it, at first hard and demanding, then gentling when that gets no response, but nothing he does seems to do much. Eventually Tim pulls out and slams his fist against Sam’s face hard enough to wrench it to the side. “God, you suck at this, you know that, ass-wipe?”

“Ass-wipe? That’s original,” Sam snaps back, ignoring the ache in his jaw. “You just lazy or are you too stupid to come up with a more creative insult?” The words are out of Sam’s mouth before he can think about the wisdom of pissing this man off right now.

Tim grabs Sam’s chin between his fingers tightly and forces Sam’s head up. “Naw, just giving you a hint of what’s coming.” Tim tosses Sam’s face away before Sam can make sense of the non-sequitur.

Turning around he puts his ass right up in Sam’s face. “Lick my ass and make it good, ‘cause I’m gettin’ bored and that don’t bode well for your little girlfriend over there.” Sam can’t see, but he hears a soft squeak of protest from the girl. Panic sweeps over him, he doesn’t think he can... sure, he’s thought about blow jobs before, but that was just teenage hormones; he’s never even considered doing _this_.

He stares at the man’s ass for several moments, unable to make himself move. “Please, don’t make...”

“Reggie?” The name is quiet and menacing, and Sam immediately swallows the rest of his words, but he’s too late. He hears the girl’s gasp of pain before his brain registers the sound of the punch and everything seems to slow down.

He grabs Tim’s hips and jerks the man back, thrusting his tongue in between the man’s ass cheeks and seeking out the hole with his tongue. Despite his capitulation, his efforts are accompanied all the while by the sound of repeated hits and soft sobbing.

It smells musky and sour and tastes even worse, but he probes deeper anyway. Tim lets out a long, appreciative moan. The abuse finally stops but the sobs don’t and he tightens his grip, hoping to bruise. Leaving a few marks behind feels pretty pathetic right now, but it’s the only way he can think of to fight back without making the situation worse.

Sam continues his probing, trying not to retch, and reaches around to take Tim in hand. He continues exploring with his tongue as he jacks the man steadily. He needs this nightmare to be behind him so he can start working on forgetting.

Tim laughs, loud and mocking, but he’s harder than he was, so Sam doesn’t let go. Sam’s nose is so tight against Tim’s cleft that it’s almost impossible to breath, and his tongue is getting sore, although Tim’s relaxed enough that Sam’s been able to slip inside a little bit. He’s desperately trying to keep his mind blank, to not think too hard about what he’s doing, to only register the slight signs that Tim approves of what he’s doing, so that he can hurry this whole cluster-fuck along.

Sam’s dizzy by the time Tim wrenches free of Sam’s grasp and spins around. The man’s cock is hard now, curving straight up, and close enough to Sam’s face to keep him pinned to the wall to avoid having to touch it again.

He isn’t prepared when the cock shoves without warning into his half-open mouth, hard and brutal, hitting the back of his throat and making him gag. The cock starts thrusting in and out, deep enough to make him choke on it. Sam has to grab hold of the man’s hips again just to keep from losing his balance. He can feel wetness tickling down the sides of his face as he struggles to breathe around the invasive flesh.

 _God, please let this be over soon,_ he begs silently, even now unable to keep himself from praying foolishly.

“The great Samuel Winchester, on his knees for me,” Tim grunts, his thrusts speeding up. Sam’s desperately trying to keep his teeth covered by his lips, and he can feel them bruising and splitting under the assault. “Bet your Daddy’d be so proud.”

The thought of his father seeing him like this, on his knees and submitting to this abuse, hurts like the stab of a knife, sharp enough to cut his soul. His vision blurs with fresh helplessness. _Better he be dead_.

Tim pulls out of Sam’s mouth abruptly, and suddenly the man is coming. The bitter, glistening liquid hits Sam in the face, making him flinch back when it runs into his eyes. It splatters everywhere, forming trails down his cheeks and nose and dripping into his mouth. Sam retches, unable to inhale without the disgusting taste burning down his throat.

Tim grabs his hair and pushes him roughly to the floor. Sam collapses under his grip, heaving helplessly against the dirty floor of the bar.

“No!” Lindsey’s angry shout jerks Sam’s head off the floor. For a moment, he wonders if they are going to kill her anyway, if all this was for nothing. She’s more angry than scared though; Tim has the gun on her now, and Reggie is moving forward.

“My turn,” the man spits out eagerly.

 _No,_ Sam thinks, hopelessly, miserably echoing Lindsey’s cry. He can’t even fight; he’s got nothing left to resist with as Reggie man-handles him off the floor...

 _Damn it_. He’d been standing outside of his motel room for God only knows how long, reliving the night’s events. He was… profoundly pathetic. He snaked his hand into his pocket to snag his key, only to catch it on the edge as he pulled his hand free. The key clattered down to the ground, making Sam flinch. He was fine. The girl was fine. He just needed to get some fucking sleep.

Crouching down wearily, he picked up the key. His knees hit the floor, and suddenly, a harsh sob forced its way out of his chest in a jagged zigzag of pain. The next moment, he found himself inside the room, leaning against the door and panting heavily. _Fuck_.

He lurched forward, avoiding the bed for whatever reason and ended up at the wobbly table, greedily drinking stale water from the ice bucket that he’d filled the night before. He sank down into the chair, and forced the bucket away from his mouth. He looked at it blankly before throwing it across the room to crash noisily against the wall. It was cheap plastic, and all it did was bounce.

He wanted it to shatter.

Dropping his head wearily down to the table, he cradled his forehead on folded arms. He should get up, take a shower, go to bed, do something… He needed to pretend that nothing had happened, because really, nothing had…

His eyes slipped shut, easing the burn…

~o0O0o~

“Sam…” The soft voice calls him from the restless sleep he’d somehow achieved while sitting at the small table in the room... except he’s in bed now. He doesn’t remember moving himself. “Sam…” The voice calls again. It’s comforting and full of love, but still it feels… wrong, somehow. He jerks up, and a long string of drool drips down his chin. He quickly wipes it away with his hand, only to set his aching mouth to throbbing once more. He closes his eyes and stubbornly wills the memories away.

Soft, small hands knead at his shoulders and he leans back into the touch. “Jess…” he breathes out, covering one of her hands with his own. He’s dreaming her again, just like he had a few days ago. He pulls the hand forward and kisses the palm of it lightly, nuzzling it against his cheek. He’s dirtier now than he was the last time. He should be trying to keep her memory clean, but he misses her too much to push her away.

“So. This is your life now?” she murmurs. “Think you can just live forever with your head buried in the sand?

“I love you, Jess. God, I miss you so much, but…” her earlier words, the ones she’d whispered to him sadly, flash through his mind, _Things are never gonna change with you. Ever_. “You’re wrong,” he chokes out. “People can change. There is reason for hope.” His voice sounds pathetic even to his own ears, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as her.

“No, Sam. There isn't.” Her words stab through him, aching and raw, leaving him floundering. He doesn’t understand why she’s saying these things to him. He knows she doesn’t mean to hurt him, and yet…

He barely manages to force out, “How can you be so sure?”

She leans down and places her lips gently against the back of his shoulder, licking across the skin, teasing and playful like she always was. “Because you freed me.”

The voice is completely wrong, low and masculine, even as the tongue continues to travel wetly across his skin. Sam jerks around, launches himself from the bed and stumbles backwards away from the strange man sitting in Jess’ place – stumbles away from _Lucifer_.

“That's right,” the man, demon, murmurs, sad and mournful. “You know who I am.”

“Lucifer,” Sam says the name aloud; the word feels like ash on his tongue.

“You are a hard one to find, Sam. Harder than most humans. I don't suppose you'd tell me where you are?”

“What do you want with me?” Sam begs.

“Thanks to you, I walk the earth.” He takes a step towards Sam, and Sam backs away in alarm. Lucifer looks at him, puzzled, like he can’t fathom why Sam would want to move away from him. “I want to give you a gift,” another step forward, “I want to give you everything.”

Sam puts out a hand, his body instinctively wanting to ward the devil away, “I don't want _anything_ from you,” he spits out.

Lucifer’s eyes are filled with compassion, patient and ageless. It’s a deception that makes Sam’s stomach roil. “I'm so sorry, Sam, I, I really am, but Nick here is just an improvisation. A Plan B; he can barely contain me without spontaneously combusting.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Lucifer closes the distance between them, and Sam finds himself frozen, useless, paralyzed, just like he had been… before, with the hunters. He pulls in a harsh, stuttering breath.

Lucifer is close, almost touching Sam when he finally stops, and he leans forward to whisper in Sam’s ear, “Why do you think you were in that chapel? You're the one, Sam. You're my vessel. My true vessel.”

“No,” Sam chokes out the desperate denial. This revelation, on top of everything else, it’s too much - the room is spinning around him, leaving him reeling and out of control, almost unable to stand.

“Yes,” Lucifer responds simply, calmly, like he has nothing to fear. No reason to believe that Sam won’t do everything in his power to stop Lucifer from using him.

“No,” and maybe if Sam says the word enough times, he’ll believe that it’s true. “That'll never happen.” Lucifer places his fingers lightly on Sam’s cheek, his thumb on Sam’s lower lip, and Sam doesn’t want him this close, but somehow he can’t seem to bring himself to pull away from the intimate touch.

“I'm sorry, but it will. I will find you. And when I do, you will let me in.” Lucifer shifts, until his lips are almost touching Sam’s. The words, when they come, are soft and breathy, “I'm sure of it.”

 _I won’t_. “You need my consent,” Sam says, surprise and hope coloring his voice.

“Of course. I'm an angel.” Lucifer pulls back slightly, sounds mildly offended.

Sam feels the barest beginnings of victory in his grasp. “I will kill myself before letting you in,” he growls, knowing in his soul that he could slit his own throat without a moment’s hesitation if it meant keeping the world safe, if it meant stopping what his arrogant actions had put in motion.

“I'll just bring you back.” The words hang heavy in the air.

Sam feels that small, barely-caught flicker of hope die out. He’s trapped, alone, frantic for something, someone, to hold on too, someone to keep him sane. He can’t do this alone. That’s always been true, whether he’s wanted to believe it or not. He needs Dean. It was only conceit that let him believe that he could be strong on his own.

Lucifer sighs, looks at Sam pityingly, “Sam. My heart breaks for you. The weight on your shoulders, what you've done, what you still have to do. It is more than anyone could bear. If there was some other way... but there isn't. I will never lie to you. I will never trick you. But you will say yes to me.”

“You're wrong,” Sam whispers.

“I'm not. I think I know you better than you know yourself.” Lucifer moves his head that last fraction of an inch, brushes his lips lightly against Sam’s. He licks against Sam’s lips, and Sam opens his mouth obediently, letting the man, the angel, the devil… letting it press inside in a slow, deliberate exploration, wet and messy. It doesn’t hurt, Sam thinks numbly. _It should hurt_. Lucifer finally releases Sam’s mouth, his lips curving into a small smile. “You want this.”

Sam wants to deny it, but he feels crushed, broken, dirty - a filthy, used piece of trash that has nothing left to give. “Why me?” he asks instead.

“Because it had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you.”

The weight of everything he’s done presses down on his shoulders, crushing under the sheer enormity of it all. When Sam is finally able to raise his eyes again, Lucifer is gone.

~o0O0o~

He was sitting with his back against the wall, looking at nothing. He wasn’t really sure how long he’d been sitting there. Somehow, though, he was pretty sure he woke up in that position, pretty sure that the thing with Lucifer had been a dream – a very real dream with edges that cut – but still, just a dream.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and stared stupidly at the phone that came out with it.

Dean.

The name echoed through his mind. Dean would know what to do.

He flipped the phone open, pressed the button and held it to his ear. It rang, over and over again, and the panic started to build in his chest. Dean might not even want to take his call, and he had no idea…

“Damn it, Cas, I need to sleep!”

The harsh words startled Sam, and he flinched; the thought of the angel keeping his brother company while he’d been completely alone panged sharply in his chest… which was selfish, he knew, but it was only one flaw of many. _Things are never gonna change with you, Sam._

“Dean,” he forced out past the pain, “it's me.”

“Sam? It's a quarter past four.”

“This is important.”

“Are you dying?” Dean asked, irritated.

“What?” Sam returned stupidly, taken aback by Dean’s harshness.

“I asked if you were dying, ‘cause, you know, if you’re not? It’s not that important.”

Sam’s hand clenched around the phone. He almost snapped it closed. There was a time when they were so in tune with each other, Dean would have just known how badly Sam needed him. It’s not like Sam could really complain though – he was the one that fucked to hell everything that had been between them.

“Lucifer,” Sam managed to get out around the lump building in his throat.

“What?” It was Dean’s turn to sound confused.

“I’m Lucifer’s vessel, Dean. Lucifer, he… I’m Lucifer’s vessel,” he repeated, his thoughts refusing to put themselves in order. He should be dealing better. Hell, he should have _expected_ this. This is where everything in his life had been leading since he was born. How could he not have seen this coming?

He swallowed hard. His throat hurt… which was probably irrelevant, in the grand scheme of things.

“Dean,” he rasped, “You still there?”

“Fuck. Hold on. I gotta get a beer for this one.”

“Dean? Wait! I’m not… I’m not doing so well without you…” Sam said, his voice trailing off and breaking at the end. He was falling apart. If he did that… Dean would _know_. Sam couldn’t let that happen. It wasn’t lying this time. It wasn’t. He just… Dean was the one who taught him this lesson - bury it and move on. The thing at the bar was only a big deal if he let it be.

Besides, he couldn’t show Dean how broken he was. If he did, Dean might not take him back. His brother needed a fighter at his side to clean up the mess that Sam had made. He could still fight. He could do that, for Dean. Forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths, he counted to ten before he heard Dean’s voice back on the line, the distinctive sound of a fridge being opened and shut in the background.

“So, you're his vessel, huh? Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?” Dean sounded so calm, so matter of fact.

“That's what he said,” Sam answered. He held his breath, waited for Dean to call him on what he’d just let slip, waited for Dean to press him for details… but Dean let it go.

“Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?”

He’d never believed he was out. Not really. He was never going to be out, that was made pretty fucking clear to him. Dean was acting like this is no big deal, though. Sam felt the hurt throbbing behind his eyes. “So, that's it? That's your response?” 

“What are you looking for?”

 _Not this. I need you, Dean, I’m drowning._ He couldn’t make himself say any of that out loud, “I don't know. A—a little panic? Maybe?”

Dean was quiet for a moment. Sam knew he wasn’t keeping his side of the calm, but his hope that Dean was catching on was shattered when Dean opened his mouth. “I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point.”

Sam wasn’t numb. He needed to be, but he wasn’t. _Okay_ …he breathed out. _Okay_ … sucked another breath in... It was going to be okay; Dean wasn’t hanging up on him, right? Sam could maybe work with that. Dean was just… tired. That was all. “What are we gonna do about it?” he finally croaked out.

“What do you want to do about it?” Dean fired back.

Sam paused, caught off guard by the question. He cast about frantically for a solution, something that would bring Dean back to his side. Sam could feel all of the muscles in his body shaking with fatigue, with fear. The events of the night threatened to crash back over him in a devastating wave. He couldn’t… he couldn’t let that happen. He pulled in his anger, cradled it close; his anger would get him through this. “I want back in,” he spat out.

“Sam—”

Sam didn’t think he could take Dean’s rejection, so he cut Dean off first, speaking right over his objections, “I mean it. I am sick of being a puppet to these sons of bitches. I'm gonna hunt him down, Dean.”

“Oh, so, we're back to revenge, then, are we? Yeah, 'cause that worked out so well last time,” Dean replied sarcastically.

 _No!_ That wasn’t… why did everyone keep insisting that that was all he’d wanted? It wasn’t that simple. Nothing was ever that simple.

 _Screw up. Worthless. Things are never gonna change with you, Sam. Ever._

No. No, there had to be a reason for hope or Sam was going to shatter right here, right now. Dean could give him a reason to keep going if he could just hang on long enough for Dean to come around.

Thinking frantically, he replied, “Not… not revenge... Redemption.” This wasn’t about revenge this time. _It wasn’t_ … He’d thought that the last time, of course. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he was still wrong.

“So, what, you're just gonna walk back in and we're gonna be the dynamic duo again?”

 _Yes. God, please, Dean._ The sick feeling that had been clawing and writhing inside of Sam’s chest was threatening to consume him from the inside. Dean wasn’t going for it; Sam couldn’t let that happen. “Look,” he answered quickly, desperation held only marginally at bay, “Dean, I can do this, I can. I promise. I’ll prove it to you.”

“Look, Sam…” Dean sounded tired, exhausted, beaten, and _God damn it_ , one of them had to stay strong. “…It doesn't matter, whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me? We're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good.”

 _No, he can’t mean that!_ “Dean,” _it doesn’t have to be like this. We can fight it. Together._ The words log-jammed in his throat, and all he could get out was a broken sounding, “…please.”

“We're not stronger when we're together, Sam,” Dean continued, as if Sam hadn’t even spoken. “I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us - love, family, whatever it is - they are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. Yeah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways.”

“Dean, don't do this.” Sam could feel himself crumbling, little pieces dropping down and slipping into the abyss.

“Bye, Sam.”

“Dean?!” Sam pleaded into the phone, “Don’t leave me with him! Please!”

There was no answer. Dean was gone.

~o0O0o~

Alcohol called to him like an old friend.

Not like the blood did, of course. If he drank enough of it, the blood would make everything leave but the anger - a far more effective solution than booze. But he couldn’t go there again. _Bloodsucking freak_. Not now.

 _Monster_. Dean’s voice was heavy with anger in his head, full of accusation.

He pulled himself from the floor and stumbled out of the room, exhaustion not quite enough to keep him grounded. He thought… he was probably filthy and still reeking of sex and... other things...

He hadn’t done much of anything once he’d gotten back to the room. Stripping his filthy shirt off, he stumbled into the bathroom and rubbed a bar of soap over his head in the bathroom sink. He knew he should do more, but couldn’t quite get himself to care. No one was around to care what he smelled like, anyway – as soon as he’d picked the lock on the cuffs holding Lindsey to the bar, she’d mumbled a tearful apology without meeting his eyes, and then practically tripped over herself in her haste to get out of the bar. One more link to humanity lost. It left him numb.

Nothing was going to be open at this time of night, well, this time of morning, anyway. He was going have to break in for it. He couldn’t make himself care about that either.

Sticking to the shadows and back alleys, he moved to the bar. His place of employment was the simplest solution; he had a key.

His path took him to the front of the building and he came up short, couldn’t make himself move forward no matter how much he wanted the promised oblivion.

 _Cocks are shoving down his throat, one after the other, first Tim, then Reggie, then Tim once again. He can’t breathe around the acrid taste shoved all the way down the back of his throat. Tears of pain leak out of his eyes no matter how tightly he keeps them shut._

 _“Leave him alone, you fucking bastards!” Lindsey's voice is high, feminine, fierce on his behalf, but he can't help feeling shamed by her attempts to come to his aid. It's been too long ingrained. He’s supposed to be the protector, not the protected…_  

 _Fuck_ … He shook the memory away. He could do this – pretend it never happened. It was over. He saved the girl – time to move on to the next hunt. A deep breath settled him a little and he moved around to the back of the bar. He was in and out before anyone was the wiser, with three large bottles of jack in a grimy plastic bag he’d found on the ground in the alley.

Unwilling to wait, he opened one of the bottles and took a long pull as he moved back to the hotel. It burned against the cracks in his lips, the taste of blood mostly masked by the harshness of the drink. The booze hit his empty stomach hard, and he should maybe have been a little worried about drinking in public, but there was no one around at this time of morning in a small town, so he took another swallow. _Fuck it_.


	3. Part Two

**Part Two**

He was safe in the room, more than halfway to blitzed, when his cell phone went off. It startled him enough that he dropped the bottle and blearily watched it slide all the way under the bed. The contents spilled over the floor in a pretty, sparkling amber pool. It inched forward slowly, creeping steadily towards his sock-covered foot while he stared.

 _Back in Black_ filtered leisurely through his muddied thoughts, and he fumbled for the phone – didn’t think he’d picked up the call soon enough even as he held it to his ear. “’Lo?” he grated out.

“Sam?”

The voice was low, nervous, _Dean_. He couldn’t answer.

The booze was making his eyes burn.

“Sam,” Dean continued after a pause. “We, uh, we should talk, but… not on the phone.”

“We should?” Sam asked stupidly.

“Yeah, yeah we should. Can you get to the old bridge?”

“Time’s it?” Sam slurred out, staring at the light coming in the windows.

“It’s seven in the morning. Sorry for waking you up. Long freakin’ night, but, you know, I’m just returning the favor.”

“’K,” Sam mumbled, “Give me… 24 hours.” He flipped the phone shut, unable to deal with anything else Dean might have wanted to say to him right then. Later. He’d be able to take it later.

Fumbling another bottle open, he managed to get the lip into his mouth before upending it. He kept the bottle there for a minute, taking several long pulls before he slammed it back down to the floor so he could breathe. The room was spinning, but his bladder was screaming the Halleluiah Chorus. He started to stand, but his legs gave out before he was all the way up, and he was out before he hit the floor. 

~o0O0o~

It was a good thing Sam had started the drive early, because the pounding hang-over headache he had made it pretty fucking difficult to stay on the road for long, and he was damn lucky nobody was around when he was breaking in and hot wiring the piece of junk he was in. It had taken for fucking ever, and later in the morning, there would have been more people around. It was true he’d built up his tolerance for booze during the summer Dean was dead, but it had also been a while since he’d drunk anything. Alcohol hadn’t actually been his drug of choice for a long time now.

Nervous nausea roiled around in his stomach, and he was forced to stop the car again so he could wretch helplessly onto the dirt shoulder. It subsided quickly this time, thank God, and he got himself settled back into the car in short order. He should probably just turn the car around. Whatever Dean wanted, it couldn’t be anything good, not after that phone call.

Maybe Dean was planning to kill him. His lack of reaction to that thought was startling in and of itself.

That would be kind of nice, actually – if Lucifer had lied about that, if there really was a simple way out.

Death by his brother’s hand certainly wouldn’t be less than he deserved, and was maybe more welcome than he’d like to admit. 

Taking another sip of tepid water from the bottle he was clutching tightly in his left hand, he started the car again with a soft sigh. It didn’t matter what Dean wanted. Good or bad, he couldn’t turn away from his brother anymore than he could stop the apocalypse.

The drive was uneventful but still, he got there late. Dean was waiting for him, leaning calmly against the Impala like he’d been there all night. Sam forced his mind blank as he rolled the car to a stop, denied the faint flicker of hope that wanted to spark. Whatever happened, happened. Maybe Dean just wanted to let Sam know he was okay before he disappeared forever, just wanted to say goodbye in person.

Sam could stop at that good bar in town afterwards. At least, since Lucifer was just going to bring him back, he didn’t have to worry about alcohol poisoning anymore. Maybe, if he drank long enough, he’d never be coherent enough to give Lucifer consent. He made a low noise in the back of his throat. He was pretty sure it was more snort than sob.

He forced himself to get out of the car and took a couple of steps forward. His legs almost gave out before he even reached the front end of his stolen car. Too afraid to leave the security of something he could grab hold of, he paused there.

Dean pushed away from the Impala and closed the distance. “Sam,” he said when he got close. He stopped a foot or two away and looked closely at Sam’s face. Sam couldn’t help but look away. “I… what the hell happened to your face?”

“Got into a bar fight,” Sam replied quickly. It wasn’t exactly a lie, and the words tripped easily off his tongue, his gaze locked on the bridge looming behind them, keeping his brother at the edge of his vision. It was safer.

“Dude, really?” Dean asked, a proud smirk twisting the corners of his mouth up.

Sam swallowed; he couldn’t bring himself to respond and looked down at the ground instead. He could still make out Dean’s face in his peripheral vision without making eye contact, without having to face whatever accusation that might be lingering in Dean’s gaze.

The teasing grin slid away from Dean in the face of Sam’s silence. Sam could feel the moment Dean let it go completely; an irritated puff of breath escaped his lips before he started fumbling around for something at his side.

The ring of metal against a sheath rang out, and suddenly Dean had Ruby’s knife in his hand. Sam’s heart leapt in his chest, and he couldn’t stop the small involuntary step he took away from his brother. Sam’s sense of self-preservation had always been stronger than was healthy, given their life-style… given what he was. 

Dean ignored the movement and reversed his grip so he was holding the knife out to Sam hilt first. “If you're serious,” he said quietly, “and you want back in... you should hang on to this. I'm sure you're rusty.”

Fierce relief slammed into Sam, and it was so intense that it stole his ability to form a coherent thought, but he managed to take the knife from Dean. He stared down at it, trying to make sense of Dean’s sudden about-face.

Dean sighed, looked away for a minute, and then continued awkwardly, “Look, man, I'm sorry.” Dean tried to meet Sam’s eyes, but when Sam tried to look up, shame cloaked itself around him. He couldn’t quite do it; his eyes snapped back down to the knife instead. It was a symbol of his failure, but right now, it was also a sign of faith. It was everything Sam needed. “I don't know. I'm...whatever I need to be. But I was, uh—wrong.”

Dean’s quiet disbelief in the face of his admission felt so right, felt so much like Dean, that Sam finally had the courage to look up and ask, “What made you change your mind?”

“Long story. The point is...maybe we are each other's Achilles heel. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other, I don't know. I just know we're all we've got. More than that. We keep each other… human.”

 _You’re a monster, Sam – a vampire_.

Sam pushed the labels away; his gratitude for Dean’s change of heart was filling up all of the holes his failures had left. He poured every ounce of sincerity he could muster into his next words. “Thank you. Really, I…” and there was so much still between them that he didn’t really know where to start.

Sam desperately didn’t want to continue the patterns he had started with Dean last year; he _knew_ that keeping more secrets from Dean was the wrong thing to do. When he opened his mouth, though, he couldn’t make the words come out, didn’t even know what the words were. All he could do was cling to his brother as long as Dean was willing to let him. He’d take whatever he could get. “Thank you. I… I won't let you down.”

“Oh, I know it,” Dean snarked back, “I mean, you are the second-best hunter on the planet.” There was concern buried deep in Dean’s eyes, but he wasn’t voicing it, and Sam couldn’t help but be relieved.

This… normality, it was exactly what Sam needed. He knew he could pretend now, with his role-model standing right next to him again. “So, what do we do now?” Sam asked, needing his brother to take charge for a while, even if he couldn’t verbalize that desire.

“We make our own future.”

Sam wasn’t exactly sure what that meant – the statement felt more loaded than it should, but he quietly agreed anyway, “Guess we have no choice.”

“Ditch the junker, Sasquatch,” Dean said, turning his back to Sam and walking back to the Impala. “I’m driving.”

~o0O0o~

 _”My, my, my, how the high and mighty have fallen…” Reggie says as he moves in on Sam. The covetous expression on his face, in his walk, reminds Sam of a predator, a snake, slow and cautious and ultimately deadly. “I must say though, you took his cock like a pro. Didn’t think I was going to want this, but I most definitely changed my mind after that little show.”_

 _Sam’s jaw aches. The back of his throat is raw and bruised. The thought of having to open up for a second time leaves him shaking. “Please,” he begs, “you guys have your revenge. I’m not gonna forget your little message. Can’t you just go and leave it at that?”_

 _Reggie smiles at him, but Sam isn’t fooled for a minute that it’s friendly. He caresses a hand through Sam’s hair and Sam’s scalp tingles lightly under the touch; it feels good, which makes it worse. This wasn’t supposed to feel good. Sam can’t help jerking away from the contact. Reggie responds by plunging his hand through Sam’s hair, wrapping his hand around the back of Sam’s head, and pulling Sam up from the floor. Sam is shoved against the wall so hard it rips the breath from his lungs with a heavy gasp._

 _Reggie reaches into a pocket and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. Holding them up so they dangle in front of Sam’s face, he says with a cruel grin, “Let’s play.”_

“Sam?”

The heat from the hand resting on his shoulder speared its way into Sam’s consciousness, and he couldn’t... he jerked his forehead from the window he’d been leaning against and fumbled for the door handle, practically falling out of the car in his haste to be free of the confines of the car. He couldn’t get his feet under him when he launched himself backwards through the door, though. He staggered back a few feet before awkwardly falling on his ass.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Dean asked, pulling himself up out of the car so he could look at Sam across the roof.

Sam’s breaths were coming out hard and fast, like he’d been running laps for Dad all morning, and he had to use the car to help pull himself up. Bracing his hands against the curved edge of the passenger side door, he sucked deep lungfuls of air in through his nose to try to get his breathing under control. Aware of Dean’s growing impatience, he asked, “What?” like he didn’t hear. He knew what Dean had said, but he couldn’t get his thoughts in order fast enough to come up with a good explanation for what just happened.

Dean just stared at Sam for a moment, confusion shining from his eyes. He finally gave an exasperated sigh and said, “We’ve been sitting in the motel parking lot for a couple of minutes now. You didn’t even react when we got here. Your eyes were open though, so I know you weren’t sleeping.”

“Sorry, Dean. I was just, lost in thought, I guess.” As excuses go, it’s a little thin, but it’s the best Sam’s got right now.

Dean arched an eyebrow and looked skeptical. “So, what were you thinking about so hard?”

“Last couple hunts,” Sam replied immediately. “I was trying to figure out if there was any kind of pattern.”

Dean opened his mouth but quickly closed it like he’d tasted something bad. He shook his head slightly. “I’m gonna go get us a room.” He walked into the office without looking back.

Sam thought, for what must have been the millionth time since they got on the road, about telling Dean what happened in Oklahoma, but saying it out loud would make it real, make it more important than it was. And anyway, he’d already tried a couple of times, but the words just dried up on his tongue.

The best thing he could do was help Dean find the damn colt; if they wasted Lucifer, this whole damn thing would be over. Over. Right. He had to try really hard to keep the ridiculousness of that thought at bay.

~o0O0o~

Her silky, soft hand flows down his chest and plays over his stomach, tickling the skin playfully. He arches up into the press of soft lips against his chest with a moan. “Jess…”

“Hi, baby,” she says as she licks her way slowly down, further and further, until he feels the moist touch of her tongue on his dick.

Jess is dead.

Cold terror washes over him and he scrambles back, pushing her away. “You aren’t Jess!” he accuses angrily.

“What?” she asks. The look of hurt spilling over her beautiful features twists cruelly at his heart. “Baby, what’s wrong?” She reaches out a hand towards him, and he struggles back further, tangling himself hopelessly in the blankets only to fall backwards onto the floor.

His fall pulls most of the blankets off the bed with him in a twisted mess. “Stop it, just… Stop!” Sam yells furiously.

Jess crawls on her knees to the side of the bed. She kneels there, looking every bit the gorgeous, sexy woman he fell in love with. She shrugs daintily, and then suddenly, she blurs. It hurts Sam’s eyes, forces him to look away for a moment, and by the time he can drag his eyes back up, Lucifer is there in her place.

He smiles sadly at Sam. “I thought it might be easier for you if I looked like that,” he says forlornly.

“You’re a sick fuck. What the hell do you want?”

Lucifer sits back on his feet, and his eyes travel over Sam, assessing. “I came to check on what belongs to me,” he says calmly. The words send a chill down Sam’s spine.

“I don’t belong to you or anyone,” Sam snarls.

The devil smiles down at him and gets up off the bed. “You can say that all you want, Sammy, but it doesn’t make it true.”

“You said you’d never lie, never trick me. What the fuck do you call what you just did?”

Lucifer’s response is swift, doesn’t miss a beat, “A kindness.”

“Fuck you.”

One corner of Lucifer’s mouth twists up in a half smile and he exhales, short and amused, “Well, we’ll just have to see how that plays out.”

“What?”

Lucifer’s tone goes from bored to threatening so fast it leaves Sam reeling. “Get up, Sammy, playtime is over.”

“No.”

Just like that, the bored half smile is back. “Either you do what I say under your own power, or you do it under mine.”

Without making any kind of decision to do so, Sam is suddenly moving to get up. He fights against it, struggles valiantly, but his body is no longer responding to his commands; his body has become his cage. The slimy, used feeling that Meg left on his soul, the feeling that was more buried deep than gone, comes creeping back over him. Just like then, there’s nothing he can do. He isn’t strong enough to fight it off. He’s not strong like Dad.

He climbs back onto the bed, leaving the blankets behind to sprawl out, completely exposed. He can’t move, can’t talk, can’t breathe as deeply as he wants to. Probably he’s getting enough air to live, but the lack of control leaves him dizzy. 

Lucifer sits down next to him and rests his hand softly on Sam’s chest. He leans in close and whispers into Sam’s ear, “My world, my rules.” He moves back again, but his distance isn’t at all reassuring. “You do what I say under your own command, or you do it under mine. Now, you may turn your head, and you may talk, but you do not move otherwise. Do you understand?”

Feeling and control rush back into Sam’s body. He sobs out a breath of relief.

“Do you understand?” The threat underlining the words is clear.

Sam turns his head to look at his captor. His breaths are coming sharp and fast. The violation over what just happened clings to him like a second skin. He can’t go through that again. Not right now. “Yes,” he breathes out shakily.

“See?” Lucifer responds calmly, like he’s speaking to a child. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Sam just blinks at him, not sure how he’s expected to respond to such an absurd statement.

“Now, grab hold of the headboard.”

“Wh… what?” he gasps out, confused.

“Put your hands on the headboard, and don’t let go unless you’re too weak to take what I’m going to do to you.” The words are derisive, cold.

“I’m stronger than you,” Sam snarls back. The anger helps him lift his arms over his head, and he grips the solid wood tightly, inexplicably grateful for something to hold on to, even though he doesn’t really know what Lucifer’s planning.

The silence stretches uncomfortably between them as Lucifer gazes down at him covetously, his cold eyes heightening Sam’s awareness of how completely exposed he is, how vulnerable.

Movement, when it finally comes, makes Sam flinch back, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on the wood. Lucifer’s hand comes to rest on his forehead, smoothes Sam’s hair back from his face, a comforting move at odds with Lucifer’s clearly sinister intent. Sam shivers under the touch.

“If you let go, if you even try to get away, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The wooden bars Sam holds on to creak under his tightening grip, and he has a moment to pray that the anticipation is worse than what’s coming. He doesn’t have to wait long.

Lucifer straddles him, but at least the angel is still wearing pants, so how bad can what the creature is planning to do to him really be? Sam’s hands are covered by Lucifer’s, gripped painfully tight around the headboard, and then the devil leans in, presses his cold lips to Sam’s forehead.

Fiery pain rips through him at the point of contact, making him scream in agony. Lucifer keeps Sam’s hands pinned to the headboard while lines of searing misery are traced against his skin. Sam can’t help it, he needs the pain to stop; he struggles to let go, struggles to rip his hands free of the wood and shove the monster above him away, but Lucifer’s hands over his own feel like iron.

He can’t escape. The soft, wet lips against his forehead continue to crash waves of torment through him that leave him nauseous, leave him delirious with pain. Just before he thinks he might lose consciousness, it eases just back to bearable. Lucifer sits back and releases Sam’s hands. He stares at Sam for a long searching moment, and then leans forward until their lips are only a whisper apart. “Mine,” Lucifer breathes out.

Sam presses his hands against his temples and prays for the pounding to stop and Lucifer shifts his weight up to accommodate Sam’s helpless movements. Sam can’t help but take advantage curling into himself to gasp small, wet moans against the sheets. 

The devil smiles indulgently over him for a few moments before swinging himself off of Sam to settle in against Sam’s back, wrapping his arms around Sam to pull him in close. Sam used to hold Jess the same way, and he shudders with how invasively intimate the simple hold is.

Sam can’t see the bastard’s face anymore, but it doesn’t make the next words any less ominous. “That was my mark, Sammy. Your mind will stay open to me, even though your body might be hidden. Why don’t you just tell me where you are, and save yourself a bit of pain?”

“Fuck. You.” Sam breathes into the bedding. The words aren’t much, but they’re all the fight Sam has left right now. Mercifully, the throbbing is still easing back quickly, fading back until it’s mostly just an unpleasant memory.

Lucifer turns and leans in close, smiling at him benignly while resting his hand casually on Sam’s bare shoulder. “I think I’ve put you through quite enough tonight. How about I let you get some sleep?”

He knows it’s stupid, but sudden hope floods through him; maybe this is over.

Lucifer is still talking, “We can just lie here together, but I think,” he says with a voice overflowing with concern, “that my current form scares you… I think I know a way to make it easier on you, Sammy. Remember, I know you better than you know yourself.”

Lucifer blurs once again, and when Sam looks back, Dean is sitting, completely naked, in the Devil’s place. “No,” Sam says tightly.

“Shhh…” his brother breathes out, pulling Sam onto his back before laying down next to him. Dean drapes a leg over Sam’s and pulls him in close.

“Please, p… please don’t do this. It’s not… fuck, this is so fucked up,” Sam stutters out. “You’re wrong. I’ve never wanted this. It’s sick.”

Dean… no, _Lucifer_ , he reminds himself, lays what looks like Dean’s head on Sam’s shoulder and strokes down Sam’s side, trailing along the curve of skin over hip bone, moving down further until slipping over Sam’s leg and coming to rest on Sam’s inner thigh. Sam’s having trouble keeping his breathing under control; the short, quick puffs of air that are all he can force into his lungs leave him dizzy and light-headed.

“Please, stop,” he begs.

Lucifer inches his fingers up just a little, teasing just below Sam’s groin. The fingers pause long enough to allow dread, dark and foreboding, to creep into Sam’s veins.

 _God, please… don’t let him move any higher_.

This was never a line he wanted to cross. Not with Dean. Not with his brother. The creeping fingers inch up with slow deliberation to brush Sam’s balls. A gasp, almost a whimper, forces itself from Sam’s lips. Nestling familiarly, the fingers, _Dean’s_ fingers, settle themselves into the dark crevasses of Sam’s groin. The touch feels wrong - overly intimate with the only person he loves more than himself, except… This isn’t Dean. It isn’t Dean. It _isn’t Dean_.

The tears spill over as he focuses in on the phrase, repeating it over and over, until awareness floats away.

~o0O0o~

Sam snapped awake, unsure what pulled him from sleep. He felt like he’d been up all night digging graves, and he groaned softly as he sat up. His head throbbed once, twice, and then blossomed into a headache to rival his worst hangover. The pain drove him out of bed, and he staggered into the bathroom to lose the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet. By the time he stood up he was shaking and dizzy, and Dean was standing in the doorway looking at him with concern.

“That didn’t sound good,” Dean said with a raised eyebrow. His brother reached out a hand and suddenly Sam was over-conscious about his state of undress. He jerked back out of Dean’s reach, hit the side of the tub hard and tumbled backwards into it.

“Sam?” Dean moved forward, reaching out to help Sam up, and this time there was no way to avoid Dean’s touch. Dean gripped his shoulders tightly, and by the time he was back on his feet and pressed close to his brother, he was feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

“Dude, you’re burning up,” Dean muttered. His brother maneuvered Sam out of the bathroom and guided him to the bed. Sam couldn’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief when Dean finally backed off a bit.

“Here,” Dean said, holding out a cheap plastic cup filled with tap water. “Drink this or you’re gonna get dehydrated.” Sam took it and brought it to his lips, but his stomach flipped alarmingly. He put it down on the nightstand without drinking any. There was no way he was forcing that down right then. He’d already started to lean back wearily when Dean said, “Why don’t you go back to sleep for a bit?”

“No!” Sam said loudly, jerking himself back up to sitting, “I don’t…”

Dean was looking at him like he had gone completely off the deep-end. Sam opened his mouth to… well, he had no idea what he was gonna say. Dizziness rolled over him again and he couldn’t help but lay back down. It felt way too good to be prone again, and he pressed his face into the pillow with a small, helpless moan.

“We got nothin’ here for sickos, Sammy,” Dean was saying as he shrugged into his jacket. “Get some sleep. I’ll be back in a flash.”

The pain was stabbing through his eyes like a pitchfork, and he thought Dean might have said something else before he left, but whatever it was, Sam couldn’t make it out over the throbbing. The worry in Dean’s tone had been nice, though, missed. It chased him down into the dark.

~o0O0o~

Dean was in the bathroom talking to somebody. Sam groaned, burying his head in the pillow trying to block out the noise. It didn’t help. He could only hear Dean, so he had to be on the phone, talking to someone.

“I don’t know,” Dean said tersely. “Yeah, well, I… He’s been sick for three days…”

Three days? Sam really wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the door was open, and Dean didn’t seem to be making any attempt to speak quietly. Sam closed his eyes, assessing himself, his memories. He felt like road-kill, true enough, but he really didn’t remember much. Still, three days didn’t seem possible.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m figuring. …” Dean sounded angry now, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense – how was it Sam’s fault that he’d been sick? “But it’s still the same old shit you know? Like we need this on top of the freakin’ apocalypse and, oh yeah, guess whose fault that is?”

The caustic words slammed into Sam’s stomach, left him reeling, and he wasn’t really sure why he was taken so off guard by the simple fact that Dean still blamed him. That he wasn’t as forgiven as it had seemed back at the rail road bridge.

 _You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back…_ The words whispered maliciously through his mind, and it wasn’t like he’d forgotten what Dean had said in that message, but he had thought that maybe they’d moved on. He wasn’t sure how he’d been so stupid, but just because Dean took him back didn’t mean he was forgiven. Hell, he sure as shit didn’t deserve to be forgiven, he knew that, but he couldn’t deny the hopeless ache Dean’s flippant words raised in him.

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true. … Yeah, I know, it… It’s okay, Bobby, just our screwed-to-all-hell luck…”

Sam had eased himself upright by the time Dean came out of the bathroom. Dean looked a little startled when he saw Sam. He stopped just outside the door, looking at Sam with an unreadable expression on his face. “So. Guess you’re gonna live,” Dean said flatly.

Sam managed to shove aside the hostile sounding words. “It’s been three days?” he asked instead.

“Yeah, well, three, goin’ on four.”

“Wow, I… don’t remember much,” Sam chuckled self-depreciatingly. “Doesn’t seem like I was down that long.” Sam’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, and he smiled his embarrassment, but Dean just stared at him, didn’t even react. Sam picked at a piece of lint on the bedspread nervously. “Um, who was on the phone?”

“Bobby,” Dean replied tersely.

The silence fell thickly again, and Dean finally dropped his disapproving gaze and moved over to one of the duffels, fumbling around for something. “So,” he said casually, “we didn’t really have time to talk before you got sick. I took out a vampire nest all by myself, and helped Castiel find and trap an arch-angel. What did you do on your summer vacation, Sammy?”

Sam flushed, guilt making his mind blank out, and he stuttered, “I was…nothing really. Just… tending bar, you know?” And there it went: opportunity number 56 to come clean with his brother - salted and burned.

Anger darkened Dean’s features once more when he turned around. “That’s it? Castiel and I are the only ones who did anything interesting?” he asked tightly.

And, yeah, that was yet another blatant opening. He felt ill, shame twisting his stomach painfully, but he couldn’t take it, couldn’t talk to Dean about what had happened when Dean was this pissed. Anyway, his brother was clearly fishing for something specific, and Sam couldn’t imagine what it could be. He was pretty certain the hunters that attacked him wouldn’t brag about sexually assaulting another hunter, even if it hadn’t actually been rape. Full-on nausea began broiling in his stomach again, and his hands were shaking. He hid them under the blankets, praying that Dean doesn’t notice how pathetically close he was to falling apart. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mumbled into his lap.

“Okay, if you say so,” Dean said coldly. He moved to the small table next to the door and snatched up his keys. “Look, I’m tired of being cooped up in the room. I’ll be back.” His brother slammed out the door before Sam could call after him to stop.

A small part of Sam, the old Sam, the one that existed before he started the end of the world, was fuming over Dean’s inexplicable anger. But mostly, he figured it was nothing less than he deserved.

~o0O0o~

Dean slammed the door behind him, but it wasn’t enough to diffuse his rage. Sam was lying. _Again_. Ruby was gone, and still Sam refused to believe that Dean was strong enough to back him up. Still too fucking broken from hell to be useful, too weak.

There was a bar down the road. He needed a fucking drink.

It’d been Cas who’d brought the rumors to Dean first, demons in the same town Sam had been working in, and Sam using demon blood to save some girl. Sam had claimed he didn’t want to hunt. Why the hell hadn’t he called Dean in instead of taking them on himself.

He hadn’t believed it at first, but one phone call to Bobby and thirty minutes was enough to confirm it. They were going to be lucky if they weren’t hunted themselves soon; they were going to have to keep a low profile for a while, which was no big deal – it’s not like they had an apocalypse to stop right now or anything.

He prowled inside the dimly lit and mostly empty bar and sat at the counter, signaling the barkeep for a couple of shots, relieved when they came quickly and he could knock them back in rapid succession.

He walked over to the pool table and grabbed a cue. God, he couldn’t believe he’d actually defended Sam when Cas had shown up. Three days of what had looked a hell of a lot more like withdrawal than any flu he’d ever nursed his brother through, and still he’d told Cas to get the fuck out, had barely kept himself from swinging a punch that would have only hurt himself. The betrayal was sharp and deep. He was going to have to apologize. Cas had never lied to him. Cas was the one that could be trusted. Not Sam, no matter how many times Dean wished the opposite was true.

He missed another shot and threw the cue stick down angrily, and the bartender immediately yelled at him to be careful with it. Dean walked out before the man could say anything else – he was going to have to find something else to take his mind off his crap life. 

~o0O0o~

Sam felt like crap; just getting out of bed left him shaky and out of breath, but he was determined to be ready to do whatever Dean asked of him before Dean came back. It was a struggle, but he managed to get himself cleaned up, dressed and perched on the edge of the bed before his brother returned, even though it pretty much used up every bit of his pitiful reserves to do so. He might have been ready, but he wasn’t sure he was going to be able to get his ass off the bed, when it came down to it. 

Dean barely looked at him when he slammed abruptly into the room, making Sam jump. “Okay. Grab your stuff. I got us a hunt.”

Taken aback, Sam watched miserably while Dean moved around the room, throwing his stuff that was strewn around everywhere back into his bags haphazardly. Dean was kind of a slob when Sam wasn’t around to make sure Dean kept it under control.

He wasn’t sure why Dean was suddenly so anxious to get out of there when Sam had only barely woken up after a fairly serious illness. He couldn’t… it didn’t… His thoughts were sluggish, and Dean… Dean’s rapid movements around the room were making Sam dizzy. “What… what’s the hunt?” he finally managed to stammer out.

Dean was in the middle of the weapons check and didn’t pause or even bother to look up. “Dude suffered a head-on collision in a parked car. We’re gonna go check it out. Move your ass, Sam, I wanna make Ohio before nightfall.”

Sam closed his eyes and fought the desire to crawl back into bed and bury himself under the covers. Of all the possible scenarios he’d thought of while Dean had been gone, a hunt, just a normal fucking hunt, like everything was back to normal – that hadn’t even occurred to him. “I... uh…”

Dean finished with the guns and slammed the zipper home while Sam was still trying to collect his thoughts. Before Sam had figured out how to react, Dean picked up his bags and walked out of the room. When he stormed back in a few minutes later, he leveled a glare at Sam, biting out, “Come on, let’s go. Your lazy ass’s been in bed way too long.”

Sam couldn’t hide the flash of hurt that flickered across his face. “I’m… already packed, but… we got bigger problems, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure the apocalypse’ll still be there when we get back,” Dean snapped dismissively.

An ache was building behind Sam’s eyes and was getting worse the longer he sat there trying to make sense of his brother’s actions. He looked down, pressing a hand to his closed lids and rubbing hard to try to shake it off. It didn’t help. The pounding continued to increase, and he looked back up with a sigh. “I just, I mean… if we’re gonna ice the devil…”

Dean’s voice was painfully loud when he angrily cut Sam off, “This is what we’re doing! Okay? End of discussion.”

With an abrupt about face, Dean stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. There wasn’t anything to do but go along. If he let it alone, maybe Dean would forget about whatever it was he thought Sam had done this time. At any rate, that was the best plan his throbbing head would let him come up with.


	4. Part Three

**Part Three**

Sam was right; Dean’s anger faded once they got back on the road, although the music was immediately turned on so loud conversation wasn’t really possible.

The road was soothing. It didn’t take long before he drifted off, and even though the music kept his sleep light, at least he wasn’t bothered by any more nightmares.

The case couldn’t have started any better either. Little Bastard seemed to pull Dean out of the last of his funk, and his almost childish enthusiasm over it only reminded Sam of how much he loved his brother. It felt like they were clicking again, just like old times. He could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that everything was once again as normal as it got for the Winchesters. There was nothing they couldn’t handle as long as they were together. Dean had been wrong – they weren’t better apart.

Yahtzee, he thought, as the page he finally managed to open proved to have the last of the info he was looking for. He sat back and rotated his head around, cracking his neck to relieve the pressure that had been building in his muscles over the last several hours. Glancing down at the cell he’d left next to his notebook, he sighed, uncertainty filling him. The information he’d found wasn’t actually going to make Dean very happy.

He shoved away his building unease, not wanting to examine it too closely. Everything was fine. He had his brother back. That’s all that mattered. Grabbing his stuff, he left the building so he wouldn’t disturb the library’s patrons before making the call. He could wait for Dean to come pick him up outside on the steps.

It rang several times before Dean actually picked up, “Yo.”

The cheerful tone of the greeting made Sam smile. “Hey. Took me a while, but I traced all the car's previous owners.”

“Any of 'em die bloody?”

“Nope. In fact…” The unmistakable clack of pool balls crashing together sounded in the background, derailing his train of thought.

They hadn’t really discussed it, but Sam had assumed that Dean would at least be working on the other parts of the case while Sam researched… or maybe even, say, _the apocalypse_ , which was still looming over them while they dicked around on stupid cases. He almost managed to keep the irritation out of his voice when he finally asked, “Dean, are you in a bar?”

“No, I… I'm, I'm in a restaurant.” In the background, Sam could hear the purr that dripped from the female bartender’s voice as she gave Dean a beer. Dean didn’t even bother to put a hand over the phone as he replied cheerfully, “Thanks.” There was a brief pause before Dean added unrepentantly, “That happens to have a bar.”

He didn’t stop to analyze where the anger surged from, biting back, “I've been working my ass off here.”

“Hey, world's smallest violin, pal,” Dean replied sarcastically, “I spent the afternoon up Christine's skirt. I needed a drink.”

Sam forced himself to shove the anger off. Getting mad at Dean wouldn’t help anything. Still, it felt at least a little good to deliver what he knew would be disappointing news. What are brothers for if not that? “Actually, you didn't,” he said evenly.

There was a pause. Sam could almost hear his brother’s brain spinning. “Meaning?”

“The car's first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia; drove it 'til he died in nineteen-seventy-two.”

“So you're saying?”

Sam smirked a little before replying, “That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean's car. It's a fake Little Bastard.”

Dean huffed out a frustrated breath before lowering his voice and demanding, “Well, what was it that killed the guy?”

“Good question.” There was another long pause that left Sam listening to nothing but the sounds of the busy bar. “So,” he finally asked awkwardly, “can you come pick me up?”

“Walk’ll do you good. I got some stuff to take care of first. I’ll meet you back at the motel later tonight.”

“Dean!” Sam replied, his anger flaring again, “That’s well over ten miles!” When nothing but silence greeted him, he pulled back the phone to look at the screen only to find that the call was disconnected. “Jerk.”

~o0O0o~

Dean wasn’t there when Sam eventually made it back to the motel, and since his brother was the only one with a key, he wearily dumped his book heavy duffle to the ground to fish a pick out of his pocket.

That weird flu, or whatever it had been, had left him weak and run down, but he really didn’t think he should still be this tired. Kneeling down to assess the lock, he noticed his hands were pretty far from steady. Fuck, that sucked; it was going to make the job of getting into the room take way longer than he wanted it to.

Cursing his brother under his breath, he got to work. Two minutes later frustration was crawling under his skin as the lock _almost_ snapped open for the third time. It was a simple fucking lock; he could have handled this one when he was freaking ten years old. He started over, determined to get it this time. There was a bed and a pillow in it for him as soon as the job was done, he promised himself.

A hand on his shoulder took him completely off guard, sending his heart rate accelerating out of control as he fell back on his instincts. The man’s voice was low and threatening, “I _said_ , what the hell…”

Sam gripped the hand on his shoulder, whirling around and using it as leverage to slam the man to the ground. His other hand completed the hard right hook before his brain could catch up, and when it did, he let out a string of cuss words under his breath that would make his brother blush.

It was the motel manager. The one he’d seen through the glass when Dean was checking in. The one that probably didn’t know him from Adam because he’d stayed in the car, too tired to get out.

Heart feeling like it was going to slam out of his chest, Sam released his shaky grip, and the man, clearly terrified, scrambled away from him. “I’m calling the fucking cops!” the manager announced loudly.

The man was also, clearly, an idiot. It was a good thing Sam had never had any intention of hurting anyone. “Look,” he soothed, although the anxious tremble in his voice probably made him sound less than totally sincere, “I’m sorry. My brother locked me out of the room as a practical joke. I… you just startled me. I’m so sorry. Here, please, let me help you up.”

Sam held out his hand and the manager looked at him like he was crazy.

Completely ignoring Sam’s hand, the man stood up on his own, backing away slowly. “Why didn’t you just come to the office and ask to be let in, then?” he asked suspiciously.

“I… don’t have any ID on me, and I didn’t think you’d believe me,” Sam fibbed, thinking fast. “I had a friend once that showed me how to pick a lock, and I thought maybe I could do it, but obviously I was wrong. I guess I don’t really remember what he did. Look, it’s my room, honest. Dean left his underwear on the floor next to the shower this morning and never bothered to pick it up. It’s crumpled up in the corner on the right side of the stall. You can go in and look. I’ll just stay out here. Please?” Sam puts everything he had into looking innocent. He just wanted the man to go away, needed the safety of a door between him and the world.

The man stared at Sam for a minute before coming to a decision with a shake of his head. He cautiously moved around Sam and unlocked the door, leaving it wide open after he went inside. Slightly nervous, Sam wracked his brain trying to remember if they’d left any weapons out when they’d left. He didn’t think so…

Sam could see him moving to the back of the room, not even bothering to hide his nosy curiosity as he walked through. Fortunately, nothing seemed to ping him as overly suspicious. When he finally got to the small bathroom, he looked down at the floor and the surprise on his face was visible in his profile. This morning Sam had silently cursed Dean out for his messiness, but he was feeling pretty grateful for it now.

“Yeah, okay,” the man said, turning around to glare at Sam. “But what about my face, huh? I should press charges.”

“I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to… look,” Sam forced himself to step into the room with the stranger. He already knew the man was no kind of threat to him, but for some reason sweat was beading on his forehead, his heart was stepping it up another notch, and he felt like he needed to crawl out of his skin as he got closer.

He crouched down in front of the bag next to the door and pretended to pull his wallet out of it. The action left him with his back exposed to the man, left him completely vulnerable to an attack that _wasn’t coming_. He knew this, damn it, but it didn’t stop the unquestionable fear that was shivering through him.

Lurching up, he spun around as fast as possible. One of the bags had a stash of emergency cash in it, and he moved over to it quickly, pulling out a couple of twenties with a clammy hand. “Here. I really didn’t mean to do that. Go buy yourself a couple rounds at the bar tonight, on me.” Sam held out the money, his wallet in his other hand open to show his ID. The man scowled at him one last time before snatching the cash from Sam’s hand and walking out.

As soon as the manager was clear, Sam slammed the door shut and turned around to lean against it, willing his heart to slow the fuck down. He found the lock without looking and slammed it home before sliding down to the floor. His eyes burned, and he rubbed at them angrily, feeling pathetic and weak. There’d been nothing to fear from that man. Nothing. He needed to get a fucking grip.

Anger surged him forward off the floor. He didn’t stop moving until he was in front of the sink, filling his cupped hands with water to splash over his face. He did it a few times, slicking his wet hair back off his face, but it didn’t do anything to calm his nerves. The anger just seemed to build, and the energy needed to go somewhere or Sam was going to explode. He slammed his fist forward, narrowly managing to miss the glass mirror, crashing against the cheap plasterboard instead.

Pain blossomed in his hand, and it felt good, soothing. It grounded him, steadied him. His face slowly warmed with embarrassment. He was acting ridiculous; hopefully the guy wouldn’t mention Sam’s attack to Dean. He chuckled under his breath. Yeah, explaining any of that to Dean would not be fun.

He felt like he could breathe again, and he went around and checked all the salt lines and locks. The place was locked up tight.

Still, it didn’t stop him from slipping a loaded gun under his pillow before climbing into bed. 

~o0O0o~

Dean manhandled him into the room with none of the care his brother would have taken a year ago. They reached the bed together and Dean shoved him down and irritably stalked over to grab the med kit.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam grumbled, careful to keep a hand tightly over the still bleeding hole Ghandi’d left in his neck. He closed his eyes – the room was starting to spin nauseatingly. When he opened them he had to squint to bring his brother back into focus. “You’re acting like you’re the one who almost bought it tonight.”

Storming back to the bed, Dean shoved him over, fury radiating off of him like heat. “You almost got taken out by a short man in diapers. You’re off your game. Pretty soon it’s gonna get one or both of us killed,” he growled.

“That’s not fair. That short man in diapers was a supernatural creature. It had the advantage.”

Dean peeled Sam’s hand away from his neck and grimaced at the damage. “Shit, another couple seconds and you would’ve been toast. He almost got your carotid.”

Without warning, Sam felt the fire of antiseptic flowing over the wound, and he flinched back with a low whimper, gritting his teeth together against the pain.

“Man up, Sammy,” Dean muttered, shoving him away to go grab more towels.

“Jesus, Dean! Would you have preferred it if I’d died?”

Dean spun back around with a couple of towels gripped tight. “No! But…” Dean trailed off, opened and closed his mouth like he was trying to figure out how to say something. For a moment, Sam thought Dean was finally going to confess what bee crawled up his ass. It was a short-lived hope though. Sam was able to identify resignation mixed with something else in Dean’s expression just before Dean locked his emotions down tight.

Silently, Dean tiredly dragged himself back over to the bed instead. “We can continue this discussion after you stop bleeding all over the bed,” he mumbled. He handed Sam a couple of pain killers, and Sam swallowed them dry without comment.

Sam was out before Dean was even done.

~o0O0o~

Dean sat at the table, watching Sam sleep numbly. Sam was… off. His reflexes were for shit, and he was distracted and unfocused. Sam had almost died tonight, and the thought of losing him, even after everything, was enough to leave Dean feeling sick and terrified. He should never have brought his brother on this hunt, knowing he was still going through withdrawal, but sending Sam away now would cause a confrontation Dean wasn’t ready to have.

When he’d met Sam at the bridge he’d really thought that they might be able to fix things between them. He’d been desperate for that to happen. He wasn’t sure how he’d been so naïve.

Sam moaned pitifully and rolled over in his sleep before going still again.

Probably dreaming about Ruby, wishing he hadn’t killed her so he could get his blood fix.

He stood up and began wearily shoving his stuff into his bags. At least the hunt was over. He could take his time finding the next hunt, make sure the withdrawal was completely over before they did anything else.

Sam moaned again, mumbled, “No,” plaintively. Dean shook his head, and stayed focused on getting packed. The Sam he’d sacrificed everything for had just been an illusion. Dean probably wasn’t being fair – no one could live up to the pedestal he’d put his brother on while he’d been six feet under. Acknowledgement of that didn’t stop the steady burn of betrayal under his skin though.

Sam whimpered, and it sounded a hell of a lot like, “please,” and then he started moving restlessly, fitfully in his sleep, small wounded sounds tearing from his throat.

Dean was moving over to the bed to wake Sam up before he could think better of it.

~o0O0o~

A rough hand on his shoulder tore Sam from his sleep and sent him immediately into a defensive crouch, his right fist swinging up and around to crash against hard flesh.

“Fuck!” The surprised yelp stilled Sam’s movements, and he willed his frantic breaths to ease down. It was Dean. It was _Dean_.

“Jesus Christ, that must have been one hell of a dream you were having,” Dean moaned, rubbing at his reddened jaw. “Shit.”

Sam blinked his eyes blearily and watched Dean get up and stumble into the bathroom to inspect the damage. He didn’t remember what he was dreaming about. Only a whisper of vague, undefined fear lingered.

He was still trying to pull his thoughts together into something resembling awake when Dean suddenly yelled from the bathroom, “Pack your shit up! We’re done with this town!”

The yell itself startled him and he jumped, then scowled at himself in annoyance. The words, though, they’d felt… the hunt wasn’t over already, was it? It’d been too easy; all of the pieces weren’t adding up. They couldn’t possibly be considering leaving already.

“Dean, didn't it strike you as strange the way Gandhi just...vanished?”

Dean finally stuck his head out, “Strange how?”

“No screaming, no big flame-out, I mean, that isn't the way ghosts usually go.”

“Still, I torched, he vanished. End of discussion. Move your lazy ass before I decide you need pay back,” Dean snapped, tapping his face with a scowl.

“Yeah, but I…”

Dean raised his hands and cut Sam off, “It was a ghost. It was a weirdly super-charged ghost, but it was still a ghost. Now let's go.” Reaching down to grab his bags, Dean headed for the door, easily dismissing everything Sam had just said.

“I… how long are we going to just keep pretending, Dean?” he blurted out, the fact that he even needed to ask the question left him queasy.

Dean just kept packing, didn’t even look up. “Pretending about what?”

“That, things are okay between us. I mean, I want them to be, but…”

“Pretend or don't pretend - whatever floats your boat,” Dean replied flippantly. “Things are the way they are. I wanted this to be a fresh start for us, but clearly that’s not working out. Get used to disappointment. That’s life. Now, are you coming, or what?” Dean grabbed his jacket and moved to the door.

“So, first you drag me into town, and now you're dragging me back out,” Sam muttered resentfully.

“You ain't steering this boat. Let's go, chop chop.” Dean walked towards the door, and Sam couldn’t make himself get up to follow. He wanted to, was desperate to, but something kept him glued to the bed.

A couple minutes passed by. Sam felt numb. He couldn’t imagine that Dean would just drive off and leave him, but then… he still didn’t fully understand how they got to where they were.

Sam heard Dean’s footsteps returning right before he reappeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame, shaking his head. “I don’t understand what’s taking…” he started angrily, and then just trailed off. His features hardened, the beginnings of a decision filling his eyes. “I just… I don’t think this is gonna work.”

Sam went cold and still. He was screwing it up. Again. He wasn’t even sure how, but it was pretty clear he was… and Lucifer hadn’t come back since… it was probably only Dean’s presence that was keeping the devil at bay. Panic flooded Sam. Dean couldn’t mean what Sam was thinking. He just couldn’t. “What isn't?” he managed to croak out.

“Us. You, me, together,” Dean gestured between them. “I—I thought it could, but it can't.”

“You're the one who called me back in,” Sam’s voice sounded like he had swallowed glass.

“You're the one that wanted back in, chief. I just… think we got some trust building to do, and I’m not sure us hunting together right now is the way to do it.”

“I… no, Dean,” Sam pled desperately, “You have to give me some more time.” The panic finally gave Sam the energy he needed to stand up and take a step closer. He wanted to collapse at Dean’s feet. He wanted to beg. Somehow though, he managed to keep himself awkwardly standing four feet away. “You can’t… we can’t split up again. How long am I gonna be on double-secret probation, anyway?”

Some of Dean’s anger slipped away and he shrugged, “Till I say so.”

The world was closing in on him, and it was getting hard to breathe. Dean could be trying harder, too. _Everything_ couldn’t be his fault, could it? God, he was so tired of feeling like the family screw up, even if it was becoming clearer and clearer that that designation was the truth. “Look. I know what I did. What I've done. What I… started to become. And I am trying to climb out of that hole, _I am_ , but you're not making it any easier.”

Dean’s gaze hardened once more, the rage from earlier flooding back, “So what am I supposed to do, just let you off the hook? And what happens when you use that as an invitation to do it again, huh?”

“No, Dean. I’m not going to…” he trailed off at the accusation in Dean’s eyes. He had to look away, look down; much more and he might break completely. “Look, you can think whatever you want. I deserve it, and worse. Hell, you'll never punish me as much as I'm punishing myself,” he dragged his gaze back up to look in Dean’s eyes. He needed Dean to hear this, “but the point is, if we're gonna be a team, you and I—it has to be a two-way street.”

“So we just go back to the way we were before?” Dean snapped back, the venom in his voice like fire in Sam’s veins. Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Dean cut him off, “No. Okay. I wanted that. I did. But you…” Dean’s voice softened as he trailed off, his eyes filled with longing, but he shrugged on the disinterested mantle again before Sam had time to feel hope. “Look, come with me or don’t come with me, but I’m leaving in five.”

Between one blink and the next, Dean was gone. Sam jerked into motion, throwing his stuff into his duffle, feeling completely gutted. He’d thought he could cope with whatever Dean dished out, he knew he had it coming, but right now he was only a hair’s breath away from losing his sanity.

He was throwing the zipper closed, ready to launch himself after his brother when Dean reappeared in the doorway. “I guess you were right about this not being over.”

~o0O0o~

“What are those, seeds?” Dean asked, reaching out to poke at the small bag in Sam’s hands.

“Yeah. They were in both vics' bellies.” Sam said eagerly, knowing they were on to something. 

Dean immediately jerked his hand away. “I hope you washed your hands,” he smirked, looking a shade discomforted.

Dean was always the squeamish one, even though he tried to play it off. Sam forced the smile off his face and added, “They're unlike any seed I've ever seen before, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t near as successful at hiding his amusement, although he played it pretty straight-laced. “Wow, just when I thought you couldn't get any geekier.” He patted Sam on the shoulder and then walked around the Impala to get in the driver’s side.

The banter felt comforting, normal, missed. Sam allowed himself a moment to bask in it.

Things had been better between them since the hunt resumed two days ago. Maybe that was all an act, but he felt like singing when he joined Dean in the car.

~o0O0o~

“It gets better. Sheriff's putting out an APB out on Paris Hilton,” Dean chuckled almost gleefully.

“That oughta be good,” Sam replied, answering his smile.

Dean pulled out his keys, contemplating them for a moment, before opening the Impala’s trunk so they could toss in their bags. The clear change in mood left Sam anxious.

Dean braced his hands against the open trunk and said quietly, “Hey, listen, I was thinking about what we talked about the other day…”

Sam watched his brother, unable to think of a response.

“Hell, I just... I mean, look, I'm not exactly Mister Innocent in this whole mess either, you know. I did break the first seal.”

Sam swallowed, squashing his instinct to rise to Dean’s defense. It’s not what Dean was looking for, and would only shut his brother down. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from saying something. “You didn't know.”

“Yeah, well, neither did you.”

Sam couldn’t speak, couldn’t help but look away, shame filling him. Dean may’ve opened the door, but Sam was the one that blasted it off the hinges so it could never be closed. They weren’t even in the same reality as far as blame went.

“I'm not saying demon blood was a great way to go,” Dean added hastily, “but, you did kill Lilith.”

“And start the apocalypse,” Sam croaked out.

“Which neither of us saw coming, I mean, who'd have thought killing Lilith would've been a bad thing?”

Sam risked a glance up, wondering where this about face was coming from, but allowing himself a slight amount of hope. He tried to keep it from shining too brightly in his eyes and scaring Dean off. _Please…_ he thought, _Please, God, I just need this one little break_.

“Thing is,” Dean frowned, “I still don’t trust you.”

It was a punch in the gut, even though Sam had known this was true since he'd gotten sick, even though he’d been more than half expecting Dean to say it. He still didn’t know why, didn’t know what changed during his illness. He still kept allowing himself to fall into the trap of forgetting it was true. Wishing never made anything so, though. He should know that better than anyone.

Dean was staring into the trunk like it held all the answers. “I… I know you’re still keeping shit from me Sam. If you want this to work, you’ve got to come clean with me.”

Sam turned around to sit on the bumper, suddenly feeling light-headed as he struggled to breathe. He wasn’t trying to keep anything from Dean, really, but there was nothing to confess beyond some bad dreams and… whatever it was that had happened in that bar. It wasn’t like he was actually raped – nothing really happened except a few blow jobs and a little humiliation. He knew he’d been allowing it to throw him off his game a little, though. It was the only thing he could think of that might be making Dean so suspicious. He’d failed to protect himself, failed to utilize anything that Dad or Dean had ever taught him. He searched frantically for a way to confess his weakness, but his throat was still completely locked up on the subject.

And how the hell did Dean know, anyway? The hunters wouldn’t have told anyone… the shame of that non-existent rumor tasted like death on his tongue. It wasn’t… no. That couldn’t possibly be what Dean suspected. It had to be something else. “What… why don’t you just ask me what you clearly want to ask me, Dean? What the hell do you think I’m keeping from you that’s so fucking big? I’ve told you everything that’s important.”

Dean shoved away from the car to bore daggers into Sam with his eyes. “Really?” he said frostily. “You’ve told me everything? You don’t think that telling me you drank demon blood at that bar you worked at in Oklahoma was important?”

For just a second, Sam’s heart froze in his chest, a flash of pain that left him lightheaded and unbalanced. He hadn’t thought about the blood since… and that was the last thing he'd expected to be accused of, although, now, he wasn’t sure why that had been the case. Without thinking he blurted out, “How did you know about that?”

The disgusted look Dean sent Sam shredded the last of his composure. Why hadn’t he thought about the blood? He could have told Dean about that. He needed to do something to wipe that look away, to make Dean see how desperately Sam needed his brother right now, but… he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the dread that was coursing through his veins like acid.

Dean shook his head grimly before quietly moving to the driver’s side door. “Just… stay here, Sam. We can try to meet up again in a few weeks. Hopefully, by then, I’ll have figured out how to look at you again.”

Dean was… _Dean was leaving…_

The creak of the door opening washed away Sam’s paralysis like a tidal wave. He lurched forward and grabbed Dean’s hand desperately, babbling without thought, stumbling over his words trying to get the explanation out fast enough. “No! Please, Dean! It wasn’t like that. I just… I spit it out. I didn’t swallow it, I swear. Please. Please, Dean. Don’t leave. Not like this. Let me explain, please.”

Dean jerked his hand out of Sam’s grip and backed away. “You didn’t… swallow?” he asked incredulously. He let out a low laugh. “You didn’t…” He trailed off, just shaking his head like he didn’t believe...

But he was still here, and as long as that was true, Sam still had a chance. He’d do anything. “It was Tim and Reggie. You remember them, right?” Sam didn’t pause to wait for a response, barreled on without stopping so he could get it all out before Dean turned away. “Hunters. We met them at Ellen’s place a couple a years ago.

“Demon took out Steve and they blamed me for it. The demon must’ve told them about me, because when they came back, they had a vial of its blood. There were only two of them, I’m not even sure how they got the jump on me, but they did, and they… they held me down…” Memories clutched at him, threatened to drag him under, but his terror at the thought of Dean giving up on him helped to push them away. “But I spit it out, Dean. I swear. I spit it out...” Sam was shaking so hard he thought he might come apart at the seams, and he folded his arms across his chest, needing to hold on to something.

Dean’s expression hadn’t changed. He still looked at Sam like he was a stranger, worse, like Sam was beneath his contempt. “I asked you,” he finally said, his tone deceivingly casual, “I asked you and you said nothing happened. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because nothing did happen. I spit it out.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first five times you said that.” Dean raised an eyebrow. His voice dropped, dangerous, threatening, “Why’d you go into withdrawal, then?”

“What?” Sam said, dumbfounded. What the hell was Dean talking about?

“Not long after we got back together. You went into withdrawal,” Dean spoke slowly, enunciating every word like Sam was an idiot.

“I…” Sam shook his head in confusion. Dean couldn’t be talking about… “That was the flu! Just a god-damned flu, Dean. That wasn’t withdrawal.”

“Your symptoms were way more like withdrawal than like the flu.”

“I…” Sam still couldn’t remember much of the three days he was sick. “I don’t know what to say, Dean. I don’t really remember, but it wasn’t withdrawal – it couldn’t have been. I’m so sorry I didn’t think it mattered enough to tell you. But I wasn’t trying to keep stuff from you. It just… nothing important happened in Oklahoma.”

They looked at each other for several long, agonizing minutes. Sam silently begged Dean with his eyes to believe, to trust, to just give him one more chance, even if nothing he’d done gave him the right to ask for it.

Dean finally let out a long breath, low and tired. “Go back to the hotel, Sam. I’m… not going anywhere, at least not yet, but, I need some space. I’m gonna go stay somewhere else. I’ll call you in a few days, once I’ve figured out what I’m going to do.” Dean strode back over to the open trunk and threw Sam’s duffel on the ground.

The loud thud the bag made when it hit the concrete sounded like judgment and accusation. Sam flinched back from it.

Dean slammed the trunk closed, got in the car, and drove off. Sam didn’t make a sound, didn’t make a move to stop him. He just watched Dean go.

Sam was alone. Again.


	5. Part Four

**Part Four**

He slept restlessly that night, his dreams riddled with incoherent nightmares that he couldn’t clearly remember when he jerked awake. By the time morning finally came, he was grateful to finally drag himself out of the bed. Despite the bad night, he was actually feeling okay, his mood only slightly dampened when he checked his phone and found no new messages.

Lucifer hadn’t returned. The relief of that was enough of a reason for his good spirits, in and of itself. Maybe what he’d thought was a dream visitation had only been a hellish nightmare brought on by the stress of what he’d had to do to save that girl. His actions were already fading from his memory. Everything from that week in Oklahoma was becoming blurred and unreal. He was going to get through this.

And, he knew Dean would come around eventually; they had plenty of time to work things out before a showdown with Lucifer had to happen.

He threw on some clothes, made sure he had his cell, and went for a run. He started off with a slow, easy pace, intending to step it up after he warmed up, but the freedom of letting himself just be for the first time in days was soothing, and he lost himself in the pace, in the steady slap of his sneakers against the pavement.

It must have been hours later when he finally stumbled, almost going down. His muscles were shaking and weak, he’s had the beginnings of a dehydration headache, and he was completely drenched in sweat.

A passing stranger gave him an alarmed look and mumbled, “Are you okay?” When Sam nodded his head, the man looked relieved and hurried off.

Resting his hands on his knees, he breathed deeply for a couple of minutes before he managed to drag his ass into the liquor store across the street. Of course, he hadn’t thought to bring his wallet, but when he asked for the restroom, the girl on the other side of the counter smiled at him and said, “Sure.” He must not have looked so bad, despite how he felt. Nausea was beginning to add itself to his growing list of woes. On second thought, she probably just felt sorry for him.

The water from the tap was heaven, and he was there for a while drinking as much as he could from his cupped hands. By the time he staggered out, his muscles were screaming at him for the overexertion, and he was relieved when she told him he wasn’t actually that far from the motel. By the time he dragged his sorry ass back into his room, the lack of good sleep from the night before had teamed up with his workout to make him completely and totally miserable. He fell into heavy slumber as soon as his head hit the pillows.

~o0O0o~

A warm hand kneads into the tight, aching muscles of his back and he moans appreciatively into the pillow. He’s naked, face down with a person straddling his back, and he doesn’t know where he is. He stiffens in alarm and shifts, intending to knock the person off, but the hands push him back down harshly, easily keeping him still.

“No, Sam,” Lucifer leans forward and whispers in his ear, “I know you remember the rules. You either choose to do what I tell you, or I’ll simply take away any ability you have to choose at all.”

Sam forces himself to stop struggling under the tight grip, and already he can feel himself shaking, can already feel the burn of hopelessness in his eyes. “Please, leave me alone.” His voice sounds breathy and weak.

“Tell me where you are, Sam. It’s the only way this ends,” Lucifer replies softly.

“Seriously? The only way the devil has to get information about one stupid human is to haunt their dreams?”

There’s a moment of silence before Lucifer replies, and Sam can hear the smile in the voice. “No, there are others.” The slight pause before Lucifer slides the next words out pricks fear down Sam’s spine, “But this way is more fun.”

The press of lips against his back, moist and soft, is shocking, and Sam whimpers out, “Stop, please. I… I don’t want that.”

Lucifer pauses, whispers against Sam’s skin, “Oh, I really think you do.”

“No! Get the fuck off of me!” Sam snarls, only barely managing to keep his body still.

Lucifer lets out a soft sigh and swings himself off of the bed in one easy movement. “Okay, but remember, you asked for this.”

Sam jerks his head up to look at the vessel Lucifer is inhabiting with alarm, but he can’t force the question past his lips.

“Roll over.”

The command is harsher than Sam expected after the gentle displays Lucifer’s been taking pains to keep up, and he hesitates for a moment, painfully aware of his state of undress. He doesn’t want to lose control of himself again, though, so he moves before Lucifer needs to tell him again. The new position leaves him feeling vulnerable and exposed. He’s not sure what to do with his hands and he brings them down to cover himself self-consciously.

“Put your hands on the headboard and hold on tight,” Lucifer says, watching him coldly.

Sam glares back, but he slowly does what he’s told.

The long look Lucifer lingers over his body is cruelly possessive, avaricious, and Lucifer murmurs with a smile, “You will be mine.” He raises his hand, brings it down, and fire flashes across Sam’s chest. His hands rip from the headboard, he can’t help it, and he curls onto his side protectively. Sam’s not sure where the whip came from, hadn’t seen it when Lucifer raised his hands, but it cut a very real path across his chest and he can feel wetness spreading across his skin.

He’s allowed to stay like that for only a minute before Lucifer’s harsh voice cuts through his pain. “Put your hands. Back. Where. They. Belong.”

He’s not sure where he gets the strength to do it, but he slowly manages to uncurl himself and grip the headboard once more. He thinks the next strike will be easier, since he knows what to expect, but while he manages to hang onto the headboard for the next three strikes, the fire gets worse with every hit. The fourth strike slashes across his dick, and he yells, can’t help but curl into himself once more. The pain is nauseating, and he can’t stop the slide of tears that wet his face.

“Shhh…” Lucifer whispers into his ear, “You’re doing beautifully. Better than I hoped, really. Here, I can be generous when I want to be.”

Sam heaves in a grateful, stuttering breath in relief that it’s over and nods tightly.

Lucifer grips one of Sam’s wrists and drags it up to the headboard. Rough-textured rope tightens around his flesh, pinning it in place. No. He tries to pull his second hand free when Lucifer grabs it, but the grip is like iron, and he’s restrained between one blink and the next. His legs are tied down just as fast, and he’s no longer sure if his decision to obey is a good one. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference in the long run.

Sam closes his eyes; he can’t watch what his tormentor is doing anymore. Several moments slip by, and before long he’s silently begging for the whip again. The anticipation is probably worse than the reality. When the whip finally strikes again, he knows he was wrong. His wounds seem to have made his skin more sensitive while he’s been laying there. He convulses within the confines of the ropes tying him down, his body so bent on protecting itself that he’s heedless of the damage he’s doing to his wrists and ankles. He has to bite into his tongue, hard enough to bleed, to keep in the scream that wants to tear from his throat.

The whip strikes again, over and over, until he can’t keep it in anymore. He’s screaming in pain, writhing against his restraints and begging for it to end. “Dean!” he screams, needing his brother to come save him. Dean’s gone though; Dean left because Sam screwed up, he knows this.

The strikes abruptly stop as soon as his brother’s name echoes through the room. He sucks in another ragged breath, not sure if this is just the calm before the storm or if this time, maybe… he can’t afford to hope, and he crushes the thought before it forms, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

A cool, soothing hand brushes his sweat-damp forehead and gentle fingers card through his hair. He pushes into the touch helplessly, knowing it’s a lie, but desperate enough to believe it.

“Shhh…” his brother whispers.

Sam hitches out a needy whimper. “Dean,” he whispers past dry, chapped lips, his voice hoarse from overuse. He can’t feel anything past the pain that’s blanketing his body from his shoulders down to his thighs, but when he opens his blurry eyes he can see Dean carefully placing his arms down at his sides. The restraints are gone; he’s free, if there was anywhere to go.

Dean’s naked just like he is, and he stiffens when Dean lies down next to him. “Hey,” Dean says gently, his voice low and gravelly, “You don’t want this? You want me to leave?”

“No!” Sam barks out gruffly. “No, please.” If Dean goes, Lucifer’s vessel – Nick – is back; he’s not so out of it that he can’t figure out the game, even if he’s too broken down to fight back right now. He can’t take any more abuse, not when the promise of comfort is so close.

His brother pulls him close, tilting his body just enough so that Sam’s back is resting against Dean’s chest, his head cradled against Dean’s arm.

Dean presses light kisses against Sam’s neck, nuzzling into his heat, and the pleasure is such a sharp contrast to the pain that Sam can’t bring himself to fight it, can’t even conceive of pulling away when he feels Dean’s hard cock line up against the crack of his ass.

“You like this, Sammy?” Dean whispers.

Sam can’t make himself talk, but he nods a little, knowing Dean will be able to feel the movement where his head rests against his brother’s arm.

“Tell me where you are, Sam. Tell me, and I’ll never leave you again. Nick will be gone, and it will just be me.”

Sam snorts; just because he’s not fighting the illusion doesn’t make him stupid. “N… never,” he stammers out. He’s shaking so bad speech is difficult.

Dean presses an open-mouthed, sloppy wet kiss against Sam’s chin, and Sam presses into it, needing more contact, needing more touch that doesn’t involve pain. A soft lick travels across Sam’s lips, and it feels completely wrong, but he doesn’t seem to care. He opens his mouth in invitation. Dean’s tongue slips inside to slide against Sam’s, an undemanding, comforting presence. The warm, wet flesh tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg and something else unidentifiable but echoing of home.

The kiss deepens, grows needy and desperate before Dean pulls away. Sam tries to follow, but his wounds stop him, halting him in place with an agonized gasp.

Dean settles back, holding Sam loosely. “It’s okay, Sammy, it’s okay,” he soothes. After a pause, he adds, “You’ll tell me eventually, you know. I have more patience than you can conceive of.”

The pain hasn’t abated in the least, and it throbs in time with his heartbeat. It pulses through him, until he’s not aware of anything else and consciousness slips away. It isn’t sleep, but it’ll do. 

~o0O0o~

Sam jerked awake with Dean’s name on his lips. _Just a dream, just a dream_ … and even though that meant Dean wasn’t there, hadn’t come back to him, he couldn’t help the overwhelming relief he felt.

Nausea tugged at his gut and he rolled out of bed, intending to high-tail it into the bathroom, but fiery pain across his chest and groin dragged him to his knees before he’d made it two steps.

He dry heaved against the carpet, pulling up nothing, and by the time his body stopped seizing, he was wrapped around himself trying to keep his cries of pain inside. It was just a dream, it had to be, but…

He sucked in deep breaths, forced himself to fight against the raw, stabbing ache and uncurl himself. The pain was already edging back a little – it was the shock of it, and his stomach’s betrayal, that had made it worse. He looked down, and the surprise over still being dressed was eclipsed by his shock at the deep stain of red across his t-shirt and old sweats.

 _It was just a dream… not real…It can’t have been real…_

Too weak with pain and exhaustion to get up, he dragged himself across the floor until his back hit the wall. It was reassuring, having something solid at his back, even if it didn’t talk back. He reached down hesitantly and peeled back his shirt. It stuck to his skin, reawakened the burn when he tugged it free to reveal long welts and broken skin. He didn’t have to pull his pants down to know the marks continued down across his dick and thighs, but he did it anyway; he had to know how bad the damage really was.

He let out a breath of relief when he saw it was nothing like it had been last night. Most of the angry red marks are just that, just raised welts – only a few of the lashes broke the skin, and of those, only two were deep. He probed lightly at the tender skin and blood immediately beaded up enough to run down his skin in red trails, confirming that they were deep enough to need stitches. _Shit_. The thought of alcohol made his stomach flip over again, but he wasn’t sure how he was going to be able to do this to himself without at least a little liquid courage.

 _Dean_ , he thought wistfully. _He should call Dean_. Dean would come and help if he knew. He’d have to. The small, niggling fear that Sam was wrong, that Dean wouldn’t, kept Sam firmly planted where he was, though.

 _Dean’s lips ghost over his own, and Sam lets out a needy whimper before pressing in hungrily, seeking entrance. His brother’s naked body presses tight against his own. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. Sam’s dick twitches, starts to sit up…_

Sam slammed his head back against the wall to push the memory, thought, whatever it was, away.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him – he had never wanted anything like this before. He was sick. No wonder Lucifer thought he was the perfect vessel.

The deep cuts, one across his chest, the other across his left thigh just under his dick (and, God, he didn’t want to think too hard about that) were bleeding pretty heavily now, and it really didn’t matter whether it was all the movement or removing his clothes that had made them worse. What mattered was that he was starting to feel woozy from blood loss. As if he didn’t already have enough help in that area from the nausea that was still sulking in his gut. 

He slid all the way down against the wall until he was on his side, and he curled in on himself. That same familiar headache from last time was starting a slow grind across his skull. He didn’t want to sleep – the thought terrified him, but he didn’t think he could stop it from happening, and his eyes slowly blinked closed. If he was lucky, maybe Lucifer lied, and he was going to bleed out in his sleep on the grungy carpet of a no-tell motel.

He was never that lucky.

~o0O0o~

The feel of restraints, harsh and tight, chase him from sleep, jerking him awake. He’s spread wide on the bed, his wrists tied tight to the headboard, his ankles to the footboard below, so tight he can’t even jerk against them, so tight his joints are aching with the strain. Nick is standing over him, the same sad long-suffering smile he always wears gracing his features.

“Welcome back, Samuel,” he says quietly, sitting down on the bed next to Sam. The slight dip of the mattress tightens the pull on Sam’s limbs painfully, and he lets out a soft moan. He hadn’t really believed he’d end up back here when he fell asleep – the last two times he’d gotten a break.

Nick trails tender fingers lightly across Sam’s stomach, tracing the lines of his muscles, and he sucks in a breath, stupidly trying to pull his skin out of reach. His tormentor chuckles. “Really, Sam, haven’t you figured out yet that you have no control here? All you have is what I allow you to have.”

“Fuck you. Give it up – I’m not gonna tell you anything,” Sam growls. He knows he loses some of his power by looking away, but he can’t help himself.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Nick replies calmly. Somehow Lucifer’s quite, patient tone is more terrifying than yelling or screaming would be. “So what’ll it be first, Sam, pain? Or pleasure?”

Sam presses his lips together in a thin line. Lucifer might be able to do whatever he wants, but Sam’s not cooperating anymore.

The force of Lucifer’s grip on his chin makes him gasp and he tries to pull his face away, but the fingers don’t slip even a little bit. “I asked you a question, Samuel. I expect an answer.” Sam’s eyes narrow into a glare, and Lucifer leans in close. “You think you’re the only one whose dreams I can invade? If you bore me, I’ll switch to Dean next. Castiel’s already been visiting there, leaving him wide open for me. You want me to leave you alone, Sammy? I can do that.” Lucifer releases his grip on Sam with a violent shake that slams Sam’s face to the side, wrenching his neck painfully.

“Dean…” Sam whispers, raising fear filled eyes towards Lucifer, “Dean doesn’t deserve this.”

Lucifer nods, his face filled with sympathy once more. “But you do,” he says evenly.

It’s a simple truth, but Sam is almost frantic not to give in. No matter how he flails about, he’s not finding any answers – his panic has left him like a trapped bird in his own mind.

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Which do you want, pain or pleasure? It’s the only choice you get today.”

Sam’s mouth opens, and he hears the word, “Pain,” slip past his lips as if it’s someone else that’s speaking, as if he’s outside of himself.

“Well then, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Nick quirks the corners of his mouth up into a smile and scans over Sam’s body like it’s a canvass. His eyes catch on Sam’s chest, locking on the tattoo that Sam got with Dean all those months ago. It’s not like it’s going to do him any good against the devil, but the memory of getting drunk and bantering about who was tougher when the needles hit skin, when he and Dean still felt like brothers, bolsters his faltering strength.

“You’re right, one paltry little tattoo won’t protect you against me. But I still find it offensive.”

Lucifer can hear his thoughts? The knowledge makes him sick, though it’s hardly surprising. He’s still fretting about that when Nick places a cold hand over the tat, completely covering it with his hand, pressing down forcefully and curling the tips of his fingers just over the curve of Sam’s shoulder. Their gazes lock and Sam glares up defiantly, but Nick takes little notice, simply watching him intensely.

The minutes tick by, and Sam finally opens his mouth, “What, you just gonna keep it covered with your hand forever? ‘Cause that’s not gonna get awkward eventually.” The words are more Dean’s than his, but they feed his courage, even though Nick doesn’t react to them in the slightest. Maybe Dean will come back and pull him from his sleep before anything else really happens. That’d be nice.

Lucifer’s hand is getting uncomfortably warm on his chest, and he breaks eye contact to glance down at himself. Nothing looks wrong, just hand against skin slightly reddened from a too-tight grip, but the heat continues to increase, uncomfortably so, until Sam’s muscles are twitching under the grip, trying to get free.

“What… what are you doing?” Sam stammers, his cocky humor already giving way to fear.

Still, there’s no reaction from Nick, and the hand continues to heat.

It’s starting to burn, now, hot everywhere their skin meets, but most especially hot where the black lines of the tattoo decorate his skin. He can feel the outline of it cutting painfully into his chest. The heat flares, raw unshielded flame against his shoulder, and it’s not just in his head, because he can smell the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh.

He cries out, pulling against his bonds hard enough to tear skin, but there’s no way to get free. The agony builds until the small area of his body where the hand rests can’t contain it anymore and it crests, bathing over him, making him arch and convulse against his restraints. He knows he’s begging, an endless stream of words that don’t make sense even to his own tortured ears, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything but making the torture end.

Lucifer’s hand pulls away abruptly, and Sam collapses against the bed, sobbing against the pillow where his cheek rests. “That’s better,” he hears distantly. Forcing himself to look down, he opens his eyes to survey the damage. He catches sight of Lucifer’s hand first. It looks completely normal, and he allows for a faint hope that maybe the pain was all in his mind after all.

It wasn’t, though. The skin is red at the edges, blisters already bubbling up beneath the skin. Towards the center, though, the skin is blackened, charred. No trace of the tattoo remains under the burned mess of his cracked and oozing skin.

The shape of the burn is what really gets to him though; all around the blackened skin the edges are highlighted in red. Lucifer’s hand print is etched into his skin. Like Castiel’s is etched on Dean, only, this one makes Sam feel claimed, owned, dirty and violated – he’s pretty sure Dean’s never felt like that about Castiel’s mark.

Sam jerks when one of his ankles is released and Lucifer slides up his body to lick over his mark. It flares painfully, but not anywhere near as much as it should. Probably the burn is plenty deep enough to have nerve damage. He closes his eyes, tries to catalogue everything he knows about burns, tries not to think about Nick’s mouth sucking against the skin of his neck. _Dean_. Nick will turn into Dean soon. He’s not sure he should feel this way, but he can’t help the eager yearning that flares at the thought.

Nick’s lips move up over his own, demanding entrance. Sam opens his eyes, praying that he’s wrong, that it’s Dean, but no, it’s still Nick’s eyes that are staring back at him. He opens his mouth to protest, “Stop,” but Nick only takes advantage of Sam’s opening, forcing his way inside Sam’s mouth, biting his tongue and tearing at the tender skin inside until it bleeds. _Dean doesn’t deserve this – I do_. It’s the only thought that keeps him from biting back.

Finally, Nick pulls away. Sam sucks in a frantic breath, only to gag on his own blood. Nick smiles at him in a parody of tenderness. “You’re mine, Sam. To do with as I please…”

Sam closes his eyes and prays to wake up. _Not real. This isn’t real. Dean, please help me_ …

Lucifer slides down Sam’s body, and he can feel Lucifer’s skin scrape obscenely along his dick. “…whether that’s pleasure…” he stops his slide just as his mouth is hovering over Sam’s groin. He presses a light kiss against the inside of Sam’s thigh. It’s the leg that’s free, and he tries to kick away, but Lucifer grabs his ankle tightly, pinning it against the bed. His fingers dig into Sam’s flesh, squeezing tight, tight, tighter… until he feels a bone snap, rapidly followed by another. He screams against the pain, and then chokes it off, stubbornly refusing to give Lucifer the pleasure, not that Lucifer isn’t already intimately acquainted with Sam’s distressed cries.

For a moment, the silence is filled only by his frantic gasps for air, and then Lucifer adds simply, “…or pain.”

Lucifer lowers his mouth and sucks Sam’s soft length in deep. It’s wet, and hot, and Sam Does. Not. Want. This. He slams his free leg against the bed, desperate to get away and forgetting about the broken bones. That memory lapse only lasts for a second before the pain makes itself known, and he chokes back a sob as agony wraps around his ankle and refuses to let go. Despite the multiple sources of pain, he can feel himself swelling under Lucifer’s attention, and something in him breaks. Tears leak from his eyes as he pushes helplessly against Lucifer’s mouth, seeking more of the hot, dirty contact.

Lucifer pulls away, chuckling. “You see? We could make a good team, you and I. Tell me where you are, Sam. Let me end your torment.”

Sam opens his mouth. For the smallest fraction of a second, Sam thinks he’s going to give in… but he bites out, “No,” instead.

“So be it.” The calm words chill Sam to the core. Lucifer slides back up Sam’s body and covers Sam’s lips with his own, pulling Sam’s leg up while he does so it folds back against Sam’s chest. Most of his body is stretched to its limit, and the limb that’s free is sending sharp, jagged spikes of pain through his leg and it hurts, it hurts so fucking much. 

It only registers what Lucifer is planning half a second before Sam feel’s Nick’s dick at his entrance, demanding to be allowed inside. He clenches up, sobs a refusal into Nick’s mouth, but none of it matters. Nick pushes into him in one powerful thrust. Sam can feel his skin splitting around the intrusion into his unprepared hole, and his muffled sobs fill Lucifer’s mouth. Lucifer sucks on Sam’s lips as he pulls out, and the drag of dry skin inside his ass hurts just as much as the push in did, like sandpaper abrading his skin from the inside. “Dean,” he whimpers, and even though he knows Dean doesn’t want him, there’s no one else to wish for.

He isn’t rewarded with the illusion this time, though. Lucifer shoves in again, and Sam shatters under him. He doesn’t have anymore fight left, and he relaxes back against the bed. “That’s it,” Lucifer says softly, pulling back and pressing his lips against Sam’s neck with gentle nudges while he whispers the words. “Just let me in. Get used to letting me in.”

Lucifer pulls out and back in again, stepping up the pace. Sam’s ass is on fire, but his dick continues to respond to the onslaught, and he doesn’t know what to do with the conflicting emotions that flood him. Nick whispers words like a lover against his skin as he pistons in and out, and Sam has to start up his own litany of denial to drown them out. “Please, stop. Please…”

He lets himself zone on the words, and it almost works, but he knows he miscalculated when he feels his climax cresting. He should have been guarding against this, keeping a vigil against this happening. It’s just another failure, though, one more to add to the ever growing list.

“Come for, me, Samuel.”

The whispered words twist through him and he sobs out a single, strangled, “No!” as the crest breaks, pulling him over the edge with pulses of intense pleasure. His ass is clenching around Lucifer’s dick as he comes, and he knows his own orgasm is what pulls Nick over the edge, too. The semen floods him, filling him, somehow lessening the burn as his climax ebbs away, and he’s left feeling only deflated and empty when Lucifer pulls out.

The bonds holding him to the bed disappear, but their absence doesn’t bring a feeling of relief. He curls onto his side and into a fetal position. His whole body aches, and he just wants to be somewhere safe, somewhere not here. Lucifer leaves him there, huddled in on himself on the bed, without a word. Sam lets his eyes fall shut with a shuddering breath.

He prays for sleep, prays that when he wakes up, he’ll be home.

~o0O0o~

It’s the throbbing pain in his foot that finally pulls him back to consciousness, which, okay, that’s fine; some of his wounds were still there the last time he woke up as well – it doesn’t mean Lucifer’s still around. Still, if it isn’t the only thing that carried over from the dream, then his foot’s the least of his worries.

“What the hell, Sam? You look like crap.” Dean’s voice is light but edged with concern, and Sam lets it sooth over him. He’s back. _Dean came back_. Relief so strong it’s almost suffocating washes over him, and he wants to curl himself into Dean’s arms and never crawl out again… but something, some nagging, inexplicable fear, keeps him still. If this is a dream, he doesn’t really want to know.

“Hey, dude, come on. Time to wake up. I think we should talk, don’t you?” Dean’s voice is gently coaxing.

Sam slowly starts to turn over, but the pain surges violently, a tearing agony that starts in his chest and throbs down into his lower back, and lower… only to slingshot back up once more. He collapses flat on his back, a small moan the only nod he gives to the torment coursing through his body. “Can’t,” he huffs out, voice strained.

He forces his eyes open and lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the dingy walls of the motel he’d fallen asleep in. This is real. Dean’s really here.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close, “he hurt you, didn’t he?”

“What?” Sam replies, startled. Dean… Dean doesn’t know about Lucifer’s visits, never cared enough to ask. Fisting a hand in the blankets, Dean pulls the covers back, and Sam’s… still nude. This isn’t right. _This isn’t right_ …

“Please…” Sam whispers, “I can’t… no more, please.”

Dean ignores Sam’s soft plea and slips in behind him, running soft hands over his stomach and pulling him back so they’re pressed tightly together, back to front. The hands wander down, brush over Sam’s dick and wrap around it possessively. “God, Sam, do you know how long I’ve wanted you?”

Anger flairs, and Sam feels a little bit of himself surge back. “Stop it,” he growls.

“It almost killed me when you went away to college,” Dean continues to muse, “but I couldn’t stop you, you know? ‘Cause what I felt for you? It wasn’t natural…”

“Stop it!” Sam repeats, louder this time, letting his fierce indignation color his tone, but Dean doesn’t even pause.

“…but it doesn’t have to be that way anymore. We can be together. Like we were meant to be. Doesn’t this feel good?” Dean’s hand is caressing his dick, long pulls that are teasing him to hardness. It does feel good, but that doesn’t mean it’s right, or even that it’s what he wants.

He pulls himself free, fights through the pain that engulfs him and launches himself from the bed, but he’s forgotten about his ankle. Again. It collapses under his weight, a thousand tiny daggers piercing through his skin and tearing at the muscles and tendons underneath. “Fuck!” he yells, shock and outrage coloring his vision red.

Dean’s wrapping strong arms around him before he can even begin to think about getting up. “Get the fuck off of me!”

Dean doesn’t listen, just pulls him up and helps him move back to the bed like nothing’s wrong, like this is just the painful aftermath of a hunt gone bad, like Sam is happy for his brother’s help. He doesn’t have enough energy to fuel his rage, and it sputters out, leaving him limp and sagging in Dean’s arms.

He can feel wetness leaking down the back of his leg as they move, and he has to shove his fist into his mouth to hold back a helpless sob.

“He’s going to break you, you know.” Dean’s sorrowful tone is like nails down a chalk board.

“Go away, please.” He’s begging. He doesn’t care.

“Do you want Nick to come back?” Dean’s the one who sounds frustrated now, bordering on angry.

Cold panic lances through his chest, leaving him breathless. “No,” he gasps.

“Then suck me off,” the words are almost cold, and they sound nothing like Dean.

He’s caught off guard, wasn’t expecting that at all, and he jerks back tearing himself from Dean’s arms to land painfully on the floor. “Fuck you,” he huffs out weakly. He doesn’t have enough left to fill his curse with the venom he wants.

Just like that, his brother is back. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” Dean says softly, kneeling down on the floor next to Sam, moving slowly, like he’d approach a scared child or a wounded animal. “I just, I want you to know it doesn’t have to hurt. Please, Sam. Don’t send me away.”

Sam closes his eyes. He can’t do this anymore. He prays for oblivion to take him.

Nick slams him onto his back, ripping away his fantasy. There’s no escape for him yet. He’s terrified that there never will be. Maybe this is hell. Maybe he was sent there the moment he broke the final seal.

Nick grabs his face, forces his jaw open and jams his dick in. Sam flails around under the onslaught, but Nick doesn’t seem to even feel Sam’s struggles. Nick pushes in more, cutting off Sam’s airflow and making him gag around the thick, heavy cock. He can hear Tim’s voice echoing through his mind…

 _“You condemned the whole world, Sammy boy. How could you be so stupid to trust a demon? Huh?” Tim thrusts in harder, making him cough and choke around the penis that’s shoving its way  down his throat. “You thought you were smarter than everybody else, you arrogant fuck. Well, this is all you deserve now. All you’ll ever be good for…”_

He can’t breathe, and the room is starting to spin around him. He claws at the thighs straddling his face, but Nick grabs his hand and squeezes, snapping the bones in his fingers like so much dry kindling. He tries to scream around the pain, but his airflow is still cut off. Spots dance around in his vision, whiting out everything else, and he has a moment to pray for death before he gives into oblivion.

~o0O0o~

He came awake suddenly and completely, cold terror catapulting him into action. Pushing himself up to sitting, he looked around the room frantically, finding nothing out of the ordinary, but unable to stop searching over and over again with frantic eyes … but… there was nothing.

The room was empty. He was alone.

He was still on the floor, still dressed in the t-shirt and sweats he’d gone running in… this morning? He had no idea what time it was, although there wasn’t much light coming in through the closed curtains.

His eyes hurt, and his face was stiff with dried snot and tears. His hand wasn’t broken though… so maybe…

He looked down, and his shirt was still stained with blood. The reality of it all twisted in his gut, leaving him breathless. He couldn’t deny that this was more than just dreams, more than simple nightmares. Carefully favoring his ankle, he got his feet under himself and pushed off the floor, only to fall back down with the pain that cracked through his lower back and ass like lightning. He had to concentrate on his breathing for a few minutes to keep himself from hyperventilating.

He staggered into the bathroom and steadied himself against the sink, leaving the light off while he stripped down in the dark. He could already tell he was better than he should be, worse than he wanted to be.

The light switch on the wall mocked him, and his hands shook as he reached towards it, but he needed to see how bad it was, even if he didn’t want to. Dean’s voice echoed through his brain, “Suck it up, Sammy.” His fingers connected with the plastic switch plate. He flipped the light on.

His chest was a mess. It pulled his gaze immediately as he turned back to the mirror. The burn was half healed, the skin melted, oozing. It was ugly as sin, a huge, roughly hand-shaped mar that attracted the eye, grabbing all attention. It was all anyone would possibly notice if they caught him with his shirt off. He felt a burn in the back of his eyes, had to rest his hands on the sink and breathe deeply to keep back the despair that was threatening. He’d never really thought of himself as vain, but he didn’t have another explanation for what he was feeling. He shoved the hurt down deep, buried it where he hoped he’d never find it again.

Compartmentalize and move on. It was what Dean would do. Hell, it was what Dad would do, and he may not be as strong as either one of them, but it was probably time for him to man up.

He rotated his ankle. It was really sore, but he thought he could probably walk on it, so he crossed that one off his list of concerns. The welts had gone down; the one across his chest was halfway healed, but his thigh still needed a couple of stitches. He turned around, and it was awkward trying to see his backside in the small mirror, but from what little he could see, it didn’t look good. The bruises were dark and deep, and given the way he felt, he doubted he was healed there at all. Or maybe he wasn’t healed at all. Maybe some of his injuries were all in his head – only some of them actually happened.

Not that it really mattered one way or the other. None of it really happened. He never left the room, so it had to have all been in his head. Lucifer had just found a way to injure him from afar.

He tried to sit on the toilet, but it hurt like hell, and he couldn’t stay sitting long enough to do anything. He stood up and ran the toilet paper over himself. Brought it around to look at it and saw that it was bloody. He threw it in the toilet and flushed the evidence away.

Nothing happened. It wasn’t real.

He took a shower, then grabbed the med kit and stitched his thigh standing up without touching a drop of alcohol. He barely felt a thing, not there, anyway. He took his clothes out to the back of the motel and burned them before throwing the ashes in the dumpster, burned the sheets from the bed while he was at it. They could charge it to the damned credit card if they noticed. He even scrubbed the carpet where he passed out the second time. The only way anyone would be able to tell that anything happened in the room when he was done was with a forensics team. It would have to do.

He grabbed his stuff, left the key on the table and hobbled out of the room stiffly, locking the door behind him. He wouldn’t be back. It was still dark out, but he’d wander around until it was light. Then he’d buy a gallon of coffee.

Even though none of it was real, no way in hell was he falling asleep again until he had to.


	6. Part Five

**Part Five**

His head slipped off his hand, and the abrupt jerk was the only thing that stopped him from nodding off sitting up in the cracked vinyl seats of the old diner. The last thing he remembered was the vague irritation of not being able to focus on the words on the damn laptop because his damned eyes were bugging out, but the waitress had been cleaning a nearby table, and she wasn’t even in the room anymore, so it had been a close call.

Red stole over his face as he imagined what might have happened if he got a dream visitation in a public space. He didn’t really know if he reacted while it was happening, but the blood would be enough cause for alarm in and of itself. The last thing he wanted was to wake up in a hospital with strangers asking him questions he had no intention of ever answering.

He stood up quickly, but had to grip the edge of the Formica as vertigo slammed into him. His body was going to force him to sleep eventually, but… not yet. Not yet. Rubbing his throbbing temples slowly, he made it a couple of steps away from the table before realizing the laptop was still sitting there.

 _Fuck_.

He walked back to the booth and slammed the lid closed, picked it up and looked around for the missing case. The sudden, harsh shrill of the phone he’d left on the bench seat startled him so badly he almost dropped the damn computer. Somehow managing not to throw the laptop across the room, he dumped it back down and grabbed the phone, flipping it open and biting out a harsh, “What?” as he finally located the bag that it was shoved into in the far corner of the booth.

There was a pause before Dean cautiously responded, “Hi.”

Sam crammed the phone between his shoulder and ear and stiffly bent down, just managing to snag the strap and haul the bag up. He was securing the computer in the bag and was just about to leave when Dean’s voice startled him with a questioning, “Sam?” and, fuck, he needed some air. That would help more than the caffeine at this point; for a while now, all caffeine had been doing was making him jittery.

He was half-way to the door before it occured to him that Dean was still waiting for a response. “What do you want? Because if you’re just calling to tell me one more time what a fuck-up I am, I’m not interested,” he snapped.

There was a moment of silence and Sam made it outside, inhaling the cold air and gratefully letting it clear his head a bit.

“I…” Dean finally replied, “I don’t think we should have this talk on the phone, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t. Meet me in front of the wax museum. I’ll be there in thirty.” Sam flipped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket. He didn’t seem to be able to make himself care one way or the other if Dean showed up – at least he probably wouldn’t fall asleep while he was walking.

~o0O0o~

He wasn’t prepared for the flood of conflicting emotions that hit him as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Dean leaning against the hood of the Impala. He was drinking what looked like a beer and looking up at the stars, even though the partial cloud cover made the view pretty unimpressive.

A part of him wanted to turn around and run away – the imagined intimacy he shared with his brother was making him flush with embarrassment, even though he could feel an answering pulse of heat in his groin, and… he couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t…

Except the other part of Sam wanted to curl into Dean's protective embrace, was desperate to be reassured that Dean had meant that long ago promise and would, if it was the last thing he did, save Sam.

Not that he and Dean had a habit of cuddling or anything. The flush in his face burned; he was probably glowing neon. He brought a shaking hand up to run tiredly over his eyes. He was just tired. That was all this was.

He moved forward, and Dean looked over, catching the movement unerringly. Dean didn’t brighten, or look happy to see Sam at all, which, Sam hadn’t expected that, not at all, but Dean looked so… inscrutable, Sam wasn’t sure what to do with it. His steps faltered, which caused him to feel more awkward, so he walked faster, was almost breathless when he got to the car, which, okay, that was just fatigue.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “You wanna sit?” He nodded at the hood.

Sam had a deer-in-the-headlights moment of panic, almost turned and walked away, except, he wasn’t a fucking coward, so he forced himself stay. He leaned against the fender. “So, what, you trust me now?” His casual tone wasn’t at all convincing, but it was the best he could do right then.

Dean actually snorted, and the dismissive sound hit Sam low in the gut. He shifted uncomfortably, at a loss for how to respond.

There was a long silence. Sam couldn’t seem to think of anything to say, didn’t know why Dean was here. The intermittent headache faded back in, and he raised a shaky hand to his head to rub uselessly at his forehead.

“I think you’re going to say yes.”

Sam spun around at the cold words, stared at Dean with a stunned look before looking around for evidence that he was somehow sleeping again. He couldn’t have heard right. That was… that was… He took a step back, a step away. His hands were shaking and he stuck them self-consciously into his pockets. “I…” his throat closed up on him, cutting off whatever poorly thought out words he might have come up with.

Dean kept talking, almost to himself, seemed to be looking through Sam instead of at him. “Every instinct I have is screaming at me that it’d be better if we split up.” Dean twitched his mouth and shook his head slightly. “But if I leave you, I know you’ll say yes. Lucifer wins. Zachariah showed me.”

“What? Whe…”

Dean cut him off harshly, “It doesn’t matter, Sam. I’m not gonna say yes, and I’m not going to let you say yes.” His brother let out a bitter laugh. “You know, when I called you before, when we met at the bridge, I actually thought maybe we could work it out, maybe go back to the way we were before, you know? But…” Dean’s words trailed off, and his face tightened into an angry mask.

Dean shook off the melancholy tone, defaulted back to his stern, I’m-in-charge, big-brother attitude, “So, anyway, I can’t just leave you, but you aren’t in any shape to be hunting anything. Shit, I could see your hands shaking when you walked up. We’re going back to Bobby’s. Gonna get you clean. _Again_. Then… I don’t know. Maybe you can stay with him, and I can get Cas to back me up while we search for a way to stop what you started.”

Sam’s thoughts were circling wildly. He stood there, eyes locked on his brother, unable to articulate any of the turbulence in his head. Dean got off the hood and got in the car. After a minute, he leaned out again and barked, “Sammy, get in the car.”

Sam jerked into motion at the tone, too many years ingrained to ignore it, and stumbled over to the passenger side. It took three tries to get his fucking hands to cooperate enough to get the door open. Lucky for him, Dean didn’t say a word, just started the car and drove. 

~o0O0o~

A couple hours later it was taking everything he had not to close his eyes against the heavy burn. Sleep beckoned temptingly, promised sweet oblivion, but he knew it was a lie.

He was desperate to get out of the car and walk around for a bit. “Dean,” he blurted out, “You gotta… I gotta… Is, um… I have to pee. We need to stop.”

“Next town’s not for another 15 minutes.” Dean didn’t even slow.

Fifteen minutes was too long, though. He’d never make it. The panic was clouding his brain, making it hard to think, and he could hear Lucifer’s laughter echoing through his mind. “Stop the car!” he yelled.

Dean startled and the car swerved a little bit before he got it under control. He shot Sam a pissed off glare and hit the brakes. The car was barely stopped before Sam threw the door open and staggered out. He inhaled deeply, and the air was cold, bracing. It felt good, tasted clean. He pounded on his forehead with the heel of his palm a few times, trying vainly to knock the cob webs loose, but it didn’t help much, so he wandered in a circle trying to increase the blood flow.

This wasn’t… this wasn’t going to work. He could feel himself losing the battle, and the terror that was riding him pushed his steps a bit faster, as if he could out run it. Please, please, please, just a little bit longer. Just a little more time, and then he’d be able to deal. He would. Just not yet. Not yet…

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he whipped around, throwing a sloppy punch that cut through air and landed him ass-first on the ground, gravel grinding painfully into his hands, residual pain from his still healing injuries jackknifing through his body to steal his breath.

Dean looked at him like he’d gone mad, and, well, it was probably not a half bad theory all told. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Sam?” Dean was crouching in front of him, hand on his face, and Sam wasn’t even sure when his brother had moved. 

He blinked at Dean, suddenly conscious of how close their bodies were. “What…” he whispered.

Fortunately, Dean didn’t wait for him to complete his sentence. “When’s the last time you slept?”

The demand took Sam off guard, and he flinched back at the tone. He wasn’t actually sure how long it had been. “I don’t…” he cut himself off, couldn’t afford to give too much away. “It doesn’t matter. Get off of me.”

The concern Sam had failed to notice while it was there faded from Dean’s features when Sam edited himself. His brother rolled his eyes and stood up. “Let’s stop at the next motel we can find. I didn’t sleep last night either.”

“No!” Sam yelled much too sharply. “I don’t, sleep is…I can’t. I’m hungry. And we need to get to Bobby’s. Let’s just stop and get something to eat, okay? We’ll be fine if we eat.”

“You need to get some sleep.” Dean sounded a little mystified, and Sam knew he wasn’t making a whole lot of sense, but, there was nothing he could do about that.

“I can’t. I can’t, okay? I just… we can go to a motel. Alright, fine. You can sleep and I’ll look for a case for you. It’s fine. It’s okay. I’ll… I’ll be fine.”

Dean just looked at him suspiciously for a few moments; he was clearly trying to figure Sam out, but Sam was pretty sure Dean hadn’t gotten anywhere with that when he sighed and replied, “Fine, diner it is. As long as I’m okay to drive after that, we can push through to Bobby’s.”

~o0O0o~

Dean looked at Sam sideways as he pulled into the truck stop parking lot. Sam was fidgeting in the seat, completely unable to sit still, and Dean was starting to think a quick, unexpected punch to knock him out might make the rest of the drive a hell of a lot more bearable.

He still hadn’t heard from Bobby, but he was pretty sure the withdrawal was worse now than it had been at the beginning of the hunt. It seemed pretty likely that Sam had gotten his hands on more blood while they’d been dealing with the fucking Leshii. He should never have let Sam go off to research on his own. It was the only time Dean could fathom Sam would’ve had time to do it.

Dean hadn’t even turned the engine off yet when Sam was climbing out of the car. “Bathroom,” he mumbled.

Dean watched him go. Sam was moving funny, which was odd – aside from the bite Sam had gotten, he hadn’t really been that banged up after the hunt.

Dean had to wonder if Sam was hallucinating again. He sighed heavily. One thing at a time. The withdrawal wasn’t letting his brother sleep, and Sam needed rest before it got really bad or he’d be in even more danger. Dean wished he knew how dangerous the detox really was, but there was no way to measure something that nobody else in the world had gone through.

He got out of the car and grabbed the med kit from the trunk, grabbing a few of the heavy hitter pain killers. If they didn’t knock Sam out, nothing would, and they’d have the added benefit of possibly easing some of Sam’s pain, real or imagined, on top of it.

Sam had forgotten the laptop, so Dean grabbed that too, as well as some of the papers he’d picked up before they’d left town. Might as well kill some time – wasn’t like they didn’t have the end of the world hanging over their heads.

Walking into the truck stop, he found Sam standing next to an empty booth, looking at it in consternation.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he was close enough.

Sam seemed to shake himself, and looked at Dean slowly. “Nothing,” he mumbled and then reluctantly sat down.

“I don’t think the table’s going to attack you,” Dean teased.

“You never know…”

Sam seemed distracted, and the reply was… odd. Anger spiked. Damn it, why had Sam done this to himself again?

An awkward silence descended between them, and Dean was grateful when the waitress stopped and asked for their order. Sam didn’t even look at the menu, just muttered, “I’ll have that too,” without taking his eyes off the window. And since when had Sam wanted to eat what Dean did? “And coffee,” he said a little too loudly as the waitress started to turn away.

The girl smiled a little thinly, nodded, and muttered, “I heard you the first time,” under her breath as she turned away, but the coffee was on the table a moment later. She’d barely finished pouring when Sam was dumping his sugar and cream in carelessly before bringing the cup to his mouth and guzzling it, grimacing over the heat but not slowing down.

Sam really didn’t need coffee to add to his obvious jitters, but it served Dean’s purposes at this point, so he let it go. “Hey,” he said instead. Sam startled and his coffee splashed onto the table as he snapped his eyes to Dean’s. “Make yourself useful, why don’t you. There’s still an apocalypse to stop, no matter what else is going on.”

Sam looked wounded, which only made Dean irritated, and he opened the paper at the top of the stack without any kind of goal other than not looking at his brother.

The waitress was getting their food ready to bring over. “Hey, I need to look something up in Dad’s journal, and I managed to forget it…”

“Okay,” Sam replied instantly, cutting Dean off and sliding himself stiffly out of the booth. He passed the waitress on the way out. As soon as she’d dropped off the plates and refilled the coffee, Dean pulled the pills out of his pocket, grabbed his pocket knife and smashed them up before dumping them into Sam’s cup, along with cream and sugar.

Dean’s instincts had been right. Sam didn’t touch his food after he got back, but he downed the coffee before she had time to top him off and was asking for more within ten minutes of sitting down.

Ten minutes after that and Sam was practically falling face first into his food. He looked so innocent, calm and sleepy, and Dean couldn’t help running a hand lightly, soothingly, over the back of his brother’s neck. He wanted his brother back by his side so bad the hurt twisted through his chest, and he had to swallow painfully around the lump that was forming in his throat. If Dean had anything else to try to fix their broken relationship he’d do it, but there was nothing. Not while Sam refused to prioritize Dean over his addiction.

He stuffed his rising anger down. It wouldn’t accomplish anything while Sam was this out of it anyway. He could pretend, for a while, at least. “Come on, sleepy head,” he murmured fondly, pulling Sam’s unresisting body out of the booth.

Sam looked at him woozily, muttered, “Not five,” in response, but he cooperated with Dean’s prodding and it didn’t take them long to make it back out to the car.

~o0O0o~

Dean guides Sam onto a bed, and… that’s not right. Panic stabs at Sam, not enough to bring him fully awake or pull him from Dean’s grasp, but enough to clear his head just a little. “Dean?” His words are slow, his movements clumsy, and he _knows_ this feeling, damn it. “You drug me?” The feeling of betrayal throbs behind his eyes, burning and shameful, but he can’t do this, and he clutches at Dean’s arms. “I toll you, I can’t…”

“Go to sleep, Sam. We’re gonna get you clean, but if you’re already exhausted going into it, you’ll never make it past the withdrawal.”

“What? No… please, Dean…” Everything is shutting down and he isn’t going to be able to fight it, can’t even kick Dean’s hands away when his brother lifts his feet up onto the bed and pulls off his shoes.

“Can’t…” he mumbles one more time, his eyes falling shut. He shudders when Dean’s hands move over the fly of his jeans, popping the buttons before peeling them down and off. His shirt is next, although Sam is so out of it that he can’t even help, and Dean has to fight to work it off. “Please…” Sam whispers. “Don’t let him…”

“Shhh… relax, Sam.” The bed shakes, losing the one sided sag as Dean gets up and crosses the room to do something. Sam’s too boneless to move, laying there and breathing deeply, the drugs keeping his anxiety blissfully low. He feels like he’s spiraling slowly on one of those old, metal playground spinners, like Dean gave it a big push, and then wandered off. It’s an innocent memory in stark contrast to where Dean’s hands were roaming just minutes ago. He should get up, he knows this abstractly, but can’t make himself care enough to move.

Despite his almost Zen state, Sam starts just a little when Dean sits back down on the edge of the bed.

“Shhh…” Dean whispers again. His hand skims across Sam’s shoulder, comforting and solid, keeps going until it reaches Sam’s lips and brushes over them. “It’s gonna be okay.” Dean lies down next to Sam on the bed, his hand skimming down Sam’s chin to come to rest over his heart. “I’ll keep you safe. I believe in you, Sammy.”

Sam’s been longing to hear those words for over a year now, and they feel so good that he can’t help a quiet, wounded sob inside. He relaxes completely under the gentle touch of Dean’s hand as it skims over his chest, stopping to quickly tease over a nipple before moving on to touch and play, a dip of skin here, a bone-lined ridge there.

He can’t fight it this time, and he arches into the contact, encouraging more. Unable to form the words, he lets his body tell Dean that the touch is okay, even welcomed. Still, Dean’s tongue skimming over his stomach to slip into his belly button is startling, and he gasps in a breath, can’t help the jerk of his stomach muscles away from Dean’s touch.

Anxiety is climbing now, tight panic that’s pressurizing his head, making it throb. He wants to speak, wants to tell Dean to stop, but his thoughts are confused, incomplete, the desire for comfort is leaving him befuddled and unsure.

“It’s okay, this is the way it should be.” Dean’s words burrow under his skin, leave him pliant and desperate. He gives in to Dean’s touch, unable to articulate why Dean should stop, even to himself.

“Please, Dean,” he moans, “please, need you. Need more.”

Dean doesn’t pull away his tongue, continues to lick and nip over Sam’s stomach while he reaches up and latches his fingers in the elastic of Sam’s boxers, slipping them down low, lower, off completely, and Sam can feel the cool slide of pre-come dripping onto his skin, his freed dick hard and aching.

Dean inches down, pulling his mouth away to rest his head lightly on Sam’s stomach, his lips just at the edge of his dampened skin. The soft skim of Dean’s finger through the wet drives a shiver through Sam’s lower abdomen, and Sam can feel Dean’s breaths, just out of reach of Sam’s tip. It’s warm, humid everywhere except where it cools over the wetness beading out of his slit. Sam knows what Dean’s planning, expects the sweet slide of Dean’s mouth over his flesh at any moment, but it doesn’t come, and he can’t help but whimper his protest.

“Tell me, Sammy, what do you want?” Dean’s voice is nine shades of sin.

“Need to push myself into your mouth, Dean,” he responds immediately. Maybe he’s always needed this; maybe he just didn’t know it. “Please, need you to taste me.”

The brush of Dean’s full lips against his skin sends tingles of electricity through Sam’s body. He can feel the smile in his brother’s voice when Dean replies, “All you’ve ever had to do is ask.”

Something niggles at the back of Sam’s head. Something about all of this is wrong. Dean wouldn’t… the heat slides slowly down his shaft, too slowly, and Sam can’t help but push up into it. Dean takes him all the way down like a pro, and a savage wave of jealousy surges through Sam. He should’ve been Dean’s first, not some stranger in a back ally when Dean was still mostly a kid. Except… Sam’s not supposed to know about that. He pushes the thought down, buries it deep, back where it’s supposed to be.

Dean pulls up, letting his teeth scrape ever so lightly across oversensitive skin, and Sam groans, obscene and wanton.

Dean pulls all the way off, placing a sweet kiss on the top of Sam’s shaft and catching Sam’s gaze. “Not what I want, this time, Sammy,” Dean husks out.

He starts climbing back up the bed, hands wrapping around Sam’s feet and bringing them with so that by the time Dean’s face is hovering over Sam’s own, his legs are back and open, leaving Sam completely exposed. He places one of Sam’s feet flat on the bed before letting it go and ordering, “Keep it there.”

Panic dislodges from somewhere in his chest, and a tiny whimper works its way free. _No! Please, he doesn’t want this. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong…_

“Shhh…” Dean soothes. “Let it go, Sammy. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you. Trust me.”

Sam’s fear can’t stand up to the sound of Dean’s comfort and love. He’s needed that since… well, he’s always needed it.

He shattered when Dean left him for hell. He’s been denying it for months, insisting everything is fine, but he still doesn’t think he’s found all the pieces. The pain of losing his brother, despite all his efforts to stop it, gouged out a piece of his soul, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get that back. He can’t… if Dean needs this…

Dean’s hand slides back over Sam’s chest, taking a moment to gently tweak his nipples before exploring downwards. When he reaches Sam’s dick, he takes Sam in hand, gives a couple forceful tugs, until Sam moans appreciatively. Letting Sam go he continues the journey down. “Gonna make you feel so good,” Dean whispers, just as his fingers slide over the rough skin of Sam’s hole.

“Don’t… don’t want this…” Sam whispers back, except, he can’t seem to bring up the matching emotions for the words, and relaxes against the touch instead – a part of himself feels closed off, numb.

“Yes you do, Sammy. Just relax for me. That’s it.”

Sam does what he’s ordered, sucking in a tight gasp of air when Dean’s finger breaches him for the first time. The nail scrapes against his skin and leaves behind a burn that burrows deep inside. It feels right, leaves Sam almost hyperventilating when he continues to push in, gently stretching him. Dean’s finger is slick inside him, and it moves quickly towards its intended goal. Sam arches up off the bed with a loud yell when Dean finds his prostrate, lust throbbing through his body hard enough to leave Sam dizzy, that part of himself not numb at all. “More,” he demands, “Need you in me, need you to tear me apart, Dean, please.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean speeds up, slipping in a second finger, and then almost immediately, a third. Between the scrape and stretch, Sam’s ass is on fire, but he doesn’t mind the burn as long as the aching emptiness that is his soul is filled.

He doesn’t have long to wait. Dean pulls out his fingers and lines himself up, letting his dick play over Sam’s slicked up hole. “Please, Dean,” he finally whimpers, and Dean plunges into Sam’s unresisting flesh. They pulse together, falling into an instinctive, mutually satisfying rhythm, and Sam thrusts harder, meeting Dean’s hips with his own.

“Fuck me, Dean, need you to fuck me. Need you to hurt me.” And God, he does. He needs pain, deserves pain. He’s dizzy with longing, desperate for the absolution Dean’s abuse will give him. His muddled, confused thoughts spill out in incoherent whimpers.

Dean’s lips press against Sam’s neck. A quiet, soothing, shushing noise washes against Sam’s skin and calms his unvoiced fears. Dean never falters his rhythm, and Sam can feel an overwhelming climax threatening to crest. He pushes back harder, reveling in the slip slide of Dean’s dick caressing his insides, exploring Sam more intimately than anyone ever has before. Except… something is wrong, still wrong. This… his breath hitches, “Dean, stop.”

“God, Sam,” Dean says, increasing his speed and pounding into Sam’s body. “Almost there. Don’t fight it. Let the drugs make this easy, Sammy. I did it for you. Just give yourself to me. I’ll take care of you. Love you.”

It’s the final two words that push him over, leave him pulsing helplessly into the hot press of their bodies. Wave after wave of ecstasy washes over him from head to foot, leaves him worn-out, buried under Dean’s heat and weight. Dean pulls out, leaving Sam empty. He clutches at his brother, pulling him back, not willing to lose the connection they’ve created.

The last thought twists in his stomach and he pushes Dean away, rolls over until he reaches the edge of the bed so he can gasp in sharp breaths over the side. Not… not… that wasn’t Dean… wasn’t Dean… and he’s never wanted that. _He hasn’t._ He closes his eyes, tenses his body until he’s shaking trying to keep all his emotions inside.

Pain cracks against his skull, sends him flying against the far wall, slamming him against it. He slides down to the floor and huddles in on himself, covering his head for protection, and he knows he’s being weak, knows he should be fighting back, but he’s naked and there’s come sliding down the back of his leg, and the feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, it’s too overwhelming to combat in this moment.

Nick grabs his shoulder and pulls him to his feet, and it’s finally clear enough to his muddled brain that hiding isn’t going to do him any good. Pulling his free hand back, he lets loose and swings, but Nick blocks the would-be punch easily, catching Sam’s fist in his own and not letting go. When Nick squeezes, Sam can feel his bones flexing; it’s the same hand that Nick broke before, the same one that was healed when Sam woke up… but clearly not completely, because the harsh grip is calling back the recent pain. 

Sam wraps a leg around Nick’s and pulls, hoping to pull him off balance, hoping to land him on the floor in a pin. The move would have worked on a human, but Nick doesn’t even seem to notice Sam’s attempt. Nick’s face is almost blank as he clamps painfully down on Sam’s still trapped hand, forcing Sam to his knees. From there he’s pushed face first into the carpet, and Nick throws a leg over him, straddling him easily.

Nick is already hard. _Fuck, no!_

Sam bucks up, twists his hand in an attempt to free himself, to reverse the pin, but nothing works; Nick is an immovable weight on his back. Sam continues to struggle anyway, jerking against Nick’s solid grip on his arms, kicking back with his feet, with his elbows, with whatever he can move, but succeeding in doing little besides scraping his face raw against the course, dirty carpet. Desperation drives him on until he loses all sense of reason, until he’s reduced to nothing more than a trapped animal’s mentality. He doesn’t know how long he flails, but eventually every muscle in his body is shaking and weak. Left with nothing, he relaxes down, his strength defeated as he gasps breaths against the floor. The dusty fibers make him cough softly, but he doesn’t even have it in himself to lift his head anymore.

He’s gotten cocky in the last few years, allowed himself to get confident in the knowledge that he’s big and strong and capable, allowed himself to believe that he can’t get taken out, at least, not by just one guy who’s smaller than he is, anyway. Deep down, despite all evidence to the contrary, he can’t quite accept that Nick isn’t just a guy. Nick doesn’t look like a monster. Sam knows you can’t always tell, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the feelings of stupidity and incompetence that leave him crushed and vulnerable.

Suddenly he’s eleven years old again. Smallest of the family and Dad’s just easily overpowered him, pinning him harshly to prove that his over-confidence can get him hurt. That raw feeling of humiliation, when a frustrated tear had escaped down his face in front of Dean, in front of his world, is back with a vengeance, and he feels small and weak and pathetic.

“Just say the word, Sam. Just tell me where you are, say yes, and all your pain will be gone. You can’t even imagine the rewards I’ll give you.”

But not that weak, apparently.

He pulls a small bit of backbone from somewhere unknown. “No,” he grits out against the scratchy fibers that are still rubbing his face raw.

Nick’s hand clenches in his hair, sending fiery pain across his scalp. He shifts his hips up slightly and then pushes back down, and just like that, his dick is ripping into Sam’s ass. The pain that erupts through him is unexpected; he’d thought the sex he’d had with Dean, _with Lucifer_ , would have eased the way, but it’s just like the first time, and he screams in agony.

Rubbing Sam’s lower body raw against the floor, Nick pulls out and slams himself down again and again. This time, no way in hell is Sam getting hard. There’s no pleasure to be found in this coupling. The brutal pace Nick is setting is all about punishment and control, and it doesn’t last long. Nick pulls out at the last minute, pulsing his come across Sam’s back, moving up so that it lands in Sam’s hair and rolls down his cheek.

Nick still has Sam’s hands in a death grip, keeping Sam from being able to do anything about the slimy, musty liquid that’s crawling down his face like tears. Sam almost laughs out loud over his frustration at not being able to wipe it away. It’s such a little, stupid thing to be fixating on.

Letting Sam’s hands go, Nick abruptly stands up. Sam slowly lowers his arms to his sides, praying that it’s over now, that he can wake up.

“Get on the bed.”

Sam squints up, looking towards the cold, collected voice. Nick is standing at the window, the drapes parted just enough for Nick to look outside. It’s light outside, and that’s startling, disorienting and wrong. There should only be darkness in this place. The light makes everything too real.

Sam rolls to his side and starts to sit up, but the pain in his lower back and… the pain is too much, and he collapses back down with a wounded cry.

“I told you to get on the bed, Sammy.” The statement is no more threatening in tone than the last one, but the danger of refusal is palpable anyway.

Still… “Fuck you,” Sam spits out.

Something flips him onto his back, something he can’t see because Nick hasn’t moved from the window. Pain slams into the side of Sam’s face, snapping his head to the side and shattering a few of his teeth; he can taste the blood, feel the grit and the jagged edges. “Fuck,” Sam whimpers, spitting blood and white bone out into his hand.

“Let’s try that again,” Nick says calmly. “Get on the bed, Sammy.”

“Stop fucking calling me that,” Sam mutters quietly, but he’s fighting through the pain and pulling himself up on the bed as he does. It hurts too much to sit, so he lies down on his side. He’s too afraid to pull the covers over himself, so he pulls his knees up instead, affording himself a small enough amount of protection to hopefully not upset his captor.

Nick doesn’t turn or acknowledge what Sam’s done – just continues to stare silently out of the window. The angel’s staring at nothing, as far as Sam can tell. He doesn’t really care, though; the longer Nick stands at the window, the longer Sam can lick his wounds undisturbed.

Oblivion would be more than welcome at this point, but there’s no way Sam’s going to be able to sleep; his teeth cut deeply into the side of his cheek when Nick struck him, almost completely through his flesh, deep enough that if Sam wanted to, he could probably push his tongue through the skin and finish the job. The blood is a heavy flow, filling his mouth and making him swallow every minute or so, leaving him nauseous. He’s gonna need stitches inside of his mouth, which is going to make eating a fucking pain in the ass.

Speaking of, the pain in his lower back is starting to throb in time with the pain in his face, and it’s like the injuries are on a feedback loop or something, because they seem to be getting worse with every painful, synchronized thump. A gentle hand on his shoulder makes him jerk, but he instinctively keeps himself from flinching away.

“Lay on your back and stretch out...”

“Please,” Sam tries to interrupt, his voice weak and gravelly, but Lucifer just talks over him.

“…I want to examine what’s mine.”

The pain is so intense that it’s making it hard for Sam to think, and he knows that lying on his back will only make the agony worse, so even though he tries to comply with the demand out of a sense of self-preservation, his body refuses to obey his commands.

Several moments pass, and Nick loses patience. The hand resting on his skin turns harsh, slamming him onto his back and roughly shoving his legs flat and a little apart, his hands down to his sides. He screams in agony, unable to stop himself from fighting back, from trying to roll back over, but Nick just waits it out, holding him in place until Sam is too weak to move anymore. Nick slowly pulls back and stares critically down at Sam. He has to look away, too pathetic to even meet Nicks eyes.

“The burn healed nicely.” Nick sounds almost proud, and Sam turns his head back so he can strain to see his upper chest. He’d somehow forgotten about the burn over the last couple of days. Nick isn’t lying. The skin no longer looks broken, and it’s no longer weeping, but… the skin is a mottled twisted mess of black, red and purple, and Sam’s pretty sure it’s still in the shape of Nick’s hand. The mark he once hoped would keep him safe has been replaced with a mark of ownership that burns into his soul.

Nick chuckles cruelly over him. “Stay put, Sammy. There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you.”

“What?” Sam mumbles, looking around. Lucifer is gone.

Movement from over by the doorway pulls Sam’s attention and when he looks over, he sees his mother there, white, blood-stained nightgown covering her just like he’d seen during his hallucinations right before he’d betrayed Dean. “Mom?” he whispers fearfully. It’s _Lucifer. Not her, not her_ , he whispers to himself fearfully.

She looks at him sadly and walks smoothly over to the bed, sitting next to him and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him close, leaning forward to kiss his brow.

“Leave me alone. You aren’t her,” he snaps, even as he drinks in her comfort like a man lost in the desert drinks water.

A gentle hand cards through his hair. “How do you know I’m not your mother, Sam?”

“Because you’ve fooled me before. You weren’t Jess, either.”

“My poor baby,” she breathes out, “Where do you think I’ve been all this time? Certainly not heaven?”

“No, stop it. I don’t want to hear it,” he whimpers back. Awareness of the pain is surging back, making it hard to think.

“Shhh…” she soothes. “Why are you still fighting him? He’s giving you an out, an eternity with your beloved brother. Just say yes, and all of your suffering will be over. It’s more than you deserve.”

The words stab through him like daggers, and he wants to deny them, but he doesn’t know how. “Why?”

“Sammy, what’s inside of you, it’s evil, and you know it. I’d so hoped you’d be able to overcome it, held out so much hope that you’d be able to turn our curse into a gift, but I was wrong.” 

“No…”

“Surely you agree that you deserve this?”

Sam is desperate to deny it, but he can’t lie about what he did anymore. Everything that’s happened is on his shoulders. All the pain and suffering that will follow when Lucifer wins will be on him, will be on _his_ fuck up. “Yes,” he says quietly, fireworks of pain flaring angrily in his face as his broken teeth rub against torn skin. Still it’s nothing compared to the pain in his lower body. “But I… I can’t compound my mistake by saying yes to you.”

“But, Sam,” his mother leans forward and brushes her soft lips over his own in a kiss that leaves Sam burning with self-disgust. “What if saying yes is the only way to win?”

“Wh… What?” he stammers out.

She rises, then lays her hand gently over the hand print on his chest. “This is what you were born for, Sammy. Please don’t make me watch you suffer anymore. Say yes.” Her fingers trace over the edges of the scar, then drift down lower to skim over his stomach.

He closes his eyes, unable to watch, his stomach muscles contracting to get away. “Stop,” begs, and the hand trails away. When he opens his eyes, she’s gone, and Nick is standing at the edge of the heavy curtains once more, pensively looking at the edge of light.

“Say yes, Sam,” Nick says forlornly. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore. You’re my family, and I’m everything you have left. We’re two halves made whole. Don’t you see that? You were born to be my vessel, it more than you deserve, don’t you agree?”

Sam picks a spot on the ceiling to stare at, willing himself not to give in to Lucifer’s taunting. Nick grabs Sam’s face, hard fingers punishing against his torn cheek, and Sam yells at the flare of pain that follows. “Answer me when I ask you a question, child,” Lucifer says maliciously.

The blood is flowing faster now, pooling in the back of Sam’s throat, making him cough and gag around it to get the words out. “I… I don’t know.”

Lucifer seems content with his response and lets him go. Sam’s far too miserable to take solace from that though. 

Nick smiles and leans forward, pressing his lips to Sam’s forehead, so similar to the way his mother had just done it that Sam can’t help his shudder of disgust. “We’re done now, but I can’t send you away without a parting gift. Say, ‘Hi,’ to Dean for me, and while you’re at it, you better pray hard that you’ve kept me amused enough to stay out of his dreams.”

“Fuck you,” Sam mutters, pretending to ignore the tears the panic brings. _Not Dean, not Dean_ …

Lucifer pulls back, but his hand stays, snaking over Sam’s mouth and nose and pressing down painfully hard. Sam can’t breathe around it, and his hands fly up to claw frantically at Nick’s hand. His chest constricts painfully as he strains against the hold, and the pain turns to agony as the seconds slip by with no relief.

All of a sudden, Lucifer lets go, and Sam heaves in a choking, gasping breath. It’s all he gets. Lucifer wraps both his hands around Sam’s neck and squeezes tightly. Sam fights with everything he’s got left, but it accomplishes nothing. He can feel his tongue swelling, distending out, his eyes bulging under the building pressure, tears of pain and panic that slide down the sides of his face as his body fights to stay alive. Slowly, his struggles cease as his body finally gives up the fight. He welcomes the darkness when it comes, gives in gratefully to the promised void.


	7. Part Six

**Part Six**

He wasn’t sure what woke him, didn’t really want to know, just wanted to burrow back down into the covers and forget. He flailed after the oblivion of sleep but it slipped from his grasp; there was no getting it back. Careful to keep his breathing even, he strained for some hint of where he was. The room was silent, empty. He was pretty sure he was alone. That certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d been wrong, though.

Slitting his eyes open, he took in what he could. Nothing looked familiar. He couldn’t remember ever being in this room before. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure how he got to a motel in the first place. The last thing he remembered was eating something or other at that diner he insisted Dean stop at. He’d _told_ Dean he didn’t want a motel.

 _Dean_.

The room was empty.

Which meant he was still dreaming… unless… _fuck_ , unless Dean had left him again.

The thought sent a sick pulse of nausea surging through his stomach and he bolted upright, frantic for evidence of his brother’s presence. Somehow, he managed to scramble completely free of the bed before his body’s screams of abuse finally overcame his panic and sent him crumpling down to the floor.

The agony exploded through his body and at first, he couldn’t tell where he hurt the worst. He was pretty sure the car crash they’d been through a few years ago had left him in less pain. With a moan he curled in on himself, cringing away from the inescapable ache.

He was still in yesterday’s clothes; only his shoes were missing.

Which meant Dean didn’t see, still didn’t know about the bruises that decorated half of his back and more.

The relief that crashed over him gave him enough energy to pull himself up off the floor and hobble into the bathroom. He braced himself against the bathroom sink and looked in the mirror, expecting to see a mass of bruises. He peered at his image, unable to get anything to make sense for a moment, unable to reconcile his appearance with the pain he felt pulsing under his skin. He was perfect. Not a single spot marring his skin. No evidence that would scream to the world that he was attacked, that he couldn’t defend himself.

He leaned in closer and prodded at his cheek bone where Lucifer had hit him hard enough to send him crashing into the wall. The surge of pain that erupted when he poked at it left him dizzy, but the skin looked completely normal. He looked at his hands, pulled up his sleeves, and, except for his old scars, saw nothing put perfect, unflawed skin. Even the bite mark the Leshii left on his neck just under his chin was gone without a trace. It was like he’d imagined every hurt he’d received in the last few weeks, and the disconnect with reality left him feeling panicked and unsettled, left him wondering if he was losing his mind.

But maybe… he closed his eyes and unbuttoned his shirt with shaking hands, the hope that maybe this meant his tattoo was still there made him breathless. He pulled off his undershirt and then his pants as well, finally kicking off his boxers and socks and steeling himself for a full examination.

He opened his eyes and raised them to the mirror. The small pained sound that escaped at the sight that greeted him made him glad Dean was nowhere around. The burn was completely healed, but the skin it marred was twisted and angry. Thick ripples and raised areas left the skin looking rough and uneven. It didn’t even feel like skin when he touched it, more like someone had glued coarse leather to his chest, all in the perfect shape of a hand. Lucifer’s mark, permanent and large enough that he’d never be able to look at himself without a shirt and not think of the one who'd claimed him.

It was a long time before he was able to tear his eyes away from the hand-print long enough to notice anything else. There was a ring of finger-sized bruises low down around his neck where Lucifer strangled him that’d been mostly covered up by his shirt collar before. He was pretty sure he could keep it covered enough so that Dean wouldn’t see if he… _when_ he came back.

Those were the only visible signs that Lucifer left, and he could take them as long as… his gaze fell to the floor where he’d left his clothes in a pile. The boxers were on top, saturated with blood, dark and still wet in places. He didn’t need to look at his backside to know what injuries still remained there.

Stumbling into the shower, he stayed under the spray just long enough to rinse off; fatigue and dizziness forced him out sooner than he would have liked. Nausea almost sent him to his knees a couple of times while he was drying off, but he managed to stay standing. The residual sickness was worse this time than last, but not as bad as the first time, which was good; he couldn’t afford to have an illness force him back into unconsciousness at this point.

He was almost completely packed up. The bed covers were hiding the worst of the blood stains, and the nagging fear that Dean wasn’t coming back was demanding his attention. He was standing in the middle of the room, unsure whether to wait or go out looking, when the nausea finally dropped him where he was standing. He heaved out bile in sickening waves onto the motel’s dirty, snot-brown carpet. Of course, that was when Dean decided to open the door and walk in.

Sam couldn’t stop, helpless against the spasms that continued to rock through him, pulling every bit of liquid out of his stomach, sending tears spilling down the sides of his face as his imaginary injuries were jolted and jerked with his body’s heaves, and when it finally subsided, there was nothing he could do but roll to his side and curl up in a ball of wretchedness, wishing he could die.

The quiet stretched on, unbroken, while Sam’s body slowly – ever so slowly – relaxed, and his stabbing torment subsided down into a throbbing, misery-inducing ache.

“Dean?” he finally husked out. Between the strangulation and throwing up, his voice was barely above a whisper, but at least the pain was barely noticeable next to all his other problems.

“You done?” Dean asked coldly from the chair closest to the door.

“Yeah, think so,” Sam replied. He’d expected it – he was used to it, even – but the hostility still cut fresh every time.

“Then get your ass up and let’s get moving.” Dean stood and walked out the door without waiting for a reply.

Sam had a moment where he didn’t want to do anything but lay on the floor and sob like a little girl, but none of what he was going through was is anything he didn’t bring on himself, so he slowly pushed his abused body to his hands and knees, then used the side of the bed to lever himself the rest of the way up. Dean hadn’t taken either of Sam’s bags with him when he walked out, and Sam groaned at the prospect of having to lift them.

 _Which, yeah, that’s completely pathetic_.

He staggered over to them, put the strap of the heavy one over his shoulder and then grabbed the second, almost tripped and fell before he made it to the door when they threw him off balance. He was shaking and bathed in sweat – he already needed to get back in the shower, but at this point he’d be lucky to make it to the Impala, so he grit his teeth and stumbled the rest of the way out. There was no way he was going to make it to the trunk so he simply climbed into the car with his bags stuffed uncomfortably around him.

Dean gave him an odd look, but he didn’t say anything, just started the car and pulled out without a sound.

~o0O0o~

They’d been on the road for a couple of hours, and Dean hadn’t looked at Sam once. He was just staring at the road, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his cheek were jumping. Sam certainly didn’t know what to say to break the silence. It hurt to talk anyway, and he was really not up to adding anything to his list of miseries.

It was cold in the car, though. He wished Dean would notice that he was shivering and just turn on the heat without being asked, but Dean hasn’t really seen Sam since Sam betrayed him with Ruby. He’d never felt more alone in his life. Not even after Tim and Reggie walked out, after they finished… But Dean was locked in his own little world, oblivious in his self-righteousness.

He contemplated the energy it would take to turn the heat on himself and quickly decided it wasn’t worth it. They were riding a thin edge; Dean was barely tolerating him. He didn’t want to do anything that might tip the fragile balance over, and he was pretty sure reminding Dean that he was sick could do that.

Grateful for the small warmth they were providing, he pulled his bags closer and rested his head against the window. His ass was shooting angry sparks up his spine. Sitting in the Impala was agony, but at least he wasn’t likely to sleep like this. Probably. He was already tired. Whatever ‘sleep’ he’d managed to get while Lucifer was visiting his dreams clearly wasn’t worth much.

It was hard to think, but he needed to figure out what he was going to do next. He couldn’t just let Lucifer win without a fight. Dean thought he was in withdrawal, and it wasn’t like he was going to get any better, since that wasn’t what was wrong with him. It was perfectly obvious Dean didn’t want him around anymore, so his brother was going to give up on him eventually. Sam snorted unhappily to himself. Dean had obviously already given up; Sam had become nothing more than a burden and an embarrassment.

He had only been trying to take control, trying to be more than the monster that he was, but everything, _everything_ , he’d ever tried had failed. The only things he’d ever succeeded at were the things that didn’t matter. And in the process he’d destroyed everything he’d ever cared about. He sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the seat, making the leather squeak loudly. God, he was surprised Dean couldn’t hear the whine in his thoughts, but he couldn’t seem to stop the self-pitying that was suffocating him.

Dean needed to focus on stopping what they started. Sam was not much more than a distraction at this point. He couldn’t imagine saying yes to Lucifer, but he can’t imagine continuing on like he has been either. Maybe he should just leave again. It was a mistake to guilt Dean into taking him back.

By being Lucifer’s plaything, he could at least be a distraction while Dean and Bobby and Castiel tried to fix the mess he’d made. He wasn’t sure what other options there were; he certainly wasn’t going to be anything more than a hindrance in his current state. If nothing else, Lucifer had neatly taken him out of the fight.

His eyes slipped closed, and it felt like defeat but it felt unbelievably good at the same time.

His thoughts wandered.

Dean’s hands move over his dick, a delicious combination of rough and gentle. His brother’s lips are close to his ear, soft puffs of warm air, and Dean breathes out, “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna save you.”

He believes Dean, but he already knows Dean’s going to fail. The knife in his hands is so heavy he thinks he might drop it, but when he tries to let go, his hands won’t respond. His brother’s going to die with Sam’s own hands on the blade. He’s helpless to stop it. The knife pushes forward, cutting deeply into Dean’s chest, sinking all the way in.

Dean looks at Sam, his eyes full of loss and betrayal. “I thought you were worth saving,” he whispers. Their eyes are locked together, their only connection the knife, and Dean’s features slowly morph into anger and hate. He yells, fury riding him as he pushes his brother away.

Dean pulls out the knife, barely glancing at it before throwing it away in disgust. “Don’t know why I even bother,” he mutters. The counter of the bar they’re in is close, and he gives Sam one last look of disgust before grabbing a bar stool and sitting down.

The bartender lines up several shots, and Dean starts downing them, one, after another, after another. Sam moves next to him, not daring to sit but unable to stay away. Dean splashes one of the glasses full of liquor in his face.

Sam flinches back under the cold burn of alcohol in his eyes, his hands flying up to frantically try to rub it away.

“I’m trying to get laid, Sammy. You’re cramping my style. Get lost.”

Sam takes a couple steps back, and strong arms circle around him, pulling him in close. His mother is on the ceiling, fire all around her. “I’m sorry,” she says mournfully. “Should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Her tone changes to mocking pity, her eyes accusing, “Not like I didn’t know I’d sold your soul to the devil. Guess we both paid for that mistake.”

“Worthless piece of trash,” the words are harsh in his ear, Tim’s holding him tight. “We were too easy on you when we left you lying on the floor in a pool of our piss and come – we should have killed you when we had a chance. Felt sorry for you, I guess.”

He tries to jerk out of Tim’s arms but Tim’s like a solid wall at his back. “Dean!” Sam yells, panic coursing through his veins.

Dean ignores his screams, doesn’t even look around, calmly downing another shot. “Time to repent, Sammy,” he says, slamming the glass on the counter for emphasis. The sound booms through the room, and everything else quiets. Everything except for Tim is muffled, like he’s underwater, alone with the other man.

“Open up, Sammy boy,” Tim growls. He’s standing in front of Sam with his dick hanging out. “Get it good and wet; gonna _really_ have some fun this time.”

The tip of Tim’s dick brushes across Sam’s lips and he opens obediently. Tim slams his hand across Sam’s face, “Told you to stay still and take it, boy! Reggie, come hold the little prick still while I fuck him.”

“I’m not fighting you!” Sam says. Turning towards his brother he cries out, “Dean, please!”

Dean walks over and Tim nods at him. “’Bout damn time, Reg. Hold him still for me.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just grabs Sam’s head and shoves his fingers in Sam’s mouth behind his teeth, forcing his jaw open painfully wide. “S’all you’re good for anymore, so take it like a man.” Dean’s words are devoid of any emotion. It’s not Dean... can’t be Dean.

He shakes Dean’s hands away and scrambles back. “Get your fucking hands off of me!” he screams. Dean just continues coming towards him, and he moves back until a wall stops him. Dean’s hands close around his shoulders. “No! Please, Dean!”

“Stop it, Sam!” Anger fills Dean’s features, a cold fury that Sam’s never seen directed at him before.

It’s nothing he ever wants to see again. He’s weak. He needs Dean too much. He gives in. No choices to be found. “Okay, okay. Whatever you want.” Sam leans forward and lays hungry lips against his brother’s. “Whatever you want, Dean.”

Dean pulls back, alarmed… but then he smiles mockingly. His features twist and warp, rearranging themselves until it’s Nick who’s staring at him.

“Don’t,” he whimpers.

“Sam!” Dean yells, shaking him.

Sam can’t do anything except curl in on himself protectively. Dean shakes him again, denying even that small comfort.

“Fuck man, you’re scaring the crap out of me. Wake the fuck up!” Dean mutters, fear filling his eyes.

“Dean, you can’t be here. You gotta leave, please,” his words are soft and broken and desperate with terror. Nick is standing right behind his brother, poised with a knife that’s dripping venom.

“I told you to wake up!” another shake followed the last, harder this time, and it aggravated his already throbbing body, intensifying the pain.

“Hurts,” he mumbled.

Dean pulled him closer, almost close enough for an embrace. He was lying on the ground next to the Impala, with no understanding of how he’d gotten there.

That had been… That had been too easy.

Lucifer wouldn’t have let him go so quickly, which meant… he wasn’t free yet. His thoughts were sluggish, and he wasn’t sure what Lucifer wanted this time, but he didn’t want Dean to go away, so he leaned in for a kiss, tongue sneaking out to lick over Dean’s lips, his brother’s name whispering out like a prayer.

Dean shoved Sam away, pushing back violently to land ass-first on the ground two feet away. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Dean?” Sam forced out softly. He didn’t understand why Dean was acting this way – why Dean didn’t look pleased by Sam’s advance. He looked around, wondering if this was some kind of new trick. The Impala was on the side of the road, both doors open. They were in the middle of nowhere, and the Dean in front of him was the only Dean around.

It was freezing, and pain was pressing in on him from all sides. The world was spinning around him, and he could feel the darkness descending again, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Sam? Stay with me, man. Just, gonna get you up into the car, okay?”

It was the most concern Dean’s had in his voice in a long time, and Sam found the strength from somewhere to fight the blackness off, let his brother help him stand and move onto the seat. Pain, jagged and sharp, coursed through his body with the contact, and a small, hurt noise escaped. He was tired of sitting; his body wanted nothing more than to lie down so he could get the pressure off his ass.

“Sam, hey. I told you to stay with me.” It was Dean’s best drill sergeant voice, the one Sam couldn’t help but listen to, and he made himself focus on Dean’s features so close to his own. Dean was kneeling in the dirt in front of him, hands on either side of his face, forcing his chin up. “What the hell happened to your neck, dude?”

“Lucifer.” The single name slipped out before Sam could stop it, and he looked away, unable to fight the shame that filled him. He didn’t want Dean to know about his failures. One more disgusted look might break him.

“Lucifer knows where we are?” Dean asked, alarmed, his fingers still fluttering lightly against Sam’s neck. “What the hell? These look like strangulation marks.” 

“It’s… no. No, he’s…He’s… just…” his throat closed around the words he managed to whisper, and jagged pain sliced through his forehead, throbbing a warning. 

“Sam, damn it. I’m here. I’m listening. Just fucking talk to me.” Dean asked, confusion lacing his features.

“I don’t know,” Sam muttered. He opened his mouth to say more, but he couldn’t force any more words out, so he shut it again.

Dean’s hand was warm and soothing against his neck, and it occurred to him too late that he should have at least tried to hide the already healed Leshii bite. Sam knew the moment Dean figured it out because his fingers tensed against Sam’s neck and he breathed out, “shit,” under his breath.

Sam was so fucking tired. All he wanted to do was sleep, but Dean was never going to let him do that now, not until Sam opened up… and for the first time, Sam wanted nothing more than to lay this all in Dean’s lap.

Dean was already pulling back, opening his mouth to ask the questions, and Sam answered before Dean could get more than a syllable out, suddenly eager to clear the air between them. He needed to get this out before he lost his nerve. “It just disappeared, Dean. I w…” pain fired through his head again, making him gasp, making his hand fly up to rub futilely against the phantom pain.

Making himself keep talking became his sole focus, and the words flew out without thought. “I woke up after we killed the bitch, and the bite mark was gone. I think maybe her death undid some of the damage she dealt. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

What… _he hadn’t meant to say any of that_. The words had just… slipped out, and now it was too late to take them back without looking like he was lying again.

Dean was looking at him like he was being inexplicable, which wasn’t really anything new. “Okay, then where’d the bruises come from?”

“Hook-up. In the bar after you left the second time. Things got a little rough.” _What?_ Fuck. Sam could feel himself shutting down, grief pressing down so hard on his chest it hurt to breath. What did… he was ready to confess, ready to tell Dean about how pathetically worthless he’d been in that fucking bar in Oklahoma, except… he couldn’t. He felt empty, the words he wanted to say simply wouldn’t come. Lucifer was behind this somehow, must’ve done something to Sam to keep him from… _Fuck, Dean was going to leave him again_.

He was slipping, losing pieces of himself with every visitation. Lucifer was going to win eventually if Sam couldn’t get Dean to stay; he knew this in his bones.

Dean was staring at Sam with a guarded expression on his face. “A hookup?” he replied skeptically. “I’m the one that does that, not you.”

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam swore angrily, and he sounded far more pissed off than he was actually feeling. “You don’t know fucking everything about me anymore! You died. I changed. Get over it!” Inside his head he was screaming against the lies, but it was like someone else had taken control of his mouth and there wasn’t anything he could do.

Dean jerked back, his expression injured, and the betrayal in his eyes was one more pain to add to the overall collection that was already almost too heavy to bear.

Sam opened his mouth to deny the words, but nothing came out. Everything was pounding and the pain in his head was getting worse the more he fought the compulsion. Maybe Dean would be able to see through the flimsy story and look deeper. He wasn’t counting on it, but… he closed his mouth and let it go. He wasn’t giving up, not yet, but he had nothing left to fight with. All he knew was that he needed to not be sitting any more. “Please, can we find another motel, take a break for a while?” he croaked out.

Sam could see the internal struggle going on behind Dean’s eyes, didn’t know what he’d do with Dean’s rejection when it came.

After a moment, Dean relented. It wasn’t the reaction Sam was expecting, but he wasn’t about to question his luck. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thanks,” Sam sighed gratefully, and this time the words were sincere.

Dean stared at him intently for a minute, looking for something. Sam wasn’t sure if Dean found what he was looking for, but even though Sam wasn’t sure what it meant, he was pretty sure he didn’t imagine the gentle squeeze that Dean gave his shoulder before getting up to get back behind the wheel.

~o0O0o~

Sam lost time while Dean drove around looking for a place to stay, but he didn’t remember anything so he probably wasn’t out long enough to dream. He knew his body was shutting down on him. He was going to pass out soon. It was only a matter of time.

The sound of the engine cutting off pulled him from his drifting thoughts, but moving felt like way too much work, so he didn’t open his eyes. The clicking sound of the cooling engine filled the car, counting down the seconds Sam had left.

Dean wasn’t moving.

Sam would probably have been fine with letting the silence stretch out between them, but his ass chose that moment to send a spear of pain through him that made him jerk and caused a soft sound to escape his lips.

Dean almost certainly heard that. Sam flushed uncomfortably, aware of his brother’s probable scrutiny.

“You gonna be okay for a minute while I get us a room?” Dean rasped.

Sam clenched his teeth against the pain, he couldn’t seem to stop himself, but he managed to respond with only a soft, husky, “Not a little kid; don’t need a babysitter.” Except… he probably did at this point.

The door creaked open and Dean was out before Sam could call his brother back, which was good – his fatigue was keeping him from making a total ass of himself, at least. Sam’s door opened, and Dean reached into the back and grabbed Sam’s bags.

He left Sam there while he went to open up the room, and Sam registered the dump Dean had found for the first time since they arrived. A hideous shade of green paint was peeling everywhere, leaving behind patches of dirty grey siding, which didn’t bode well for the inside. The fact that it was in the middle of nowhere was probably the only thing that kept the place from being condemned years ago. Dean certainly had a talent for finding the worst of the worst, but it was really not something Dean should be proud of. 

If he sat here much longer, Dean was going to come back for him, which would be humiliating – especially after the roadside display earlier.

Slowly, he swung his feet out of the car and stood up. He could fucking do this. The world was spinning around him, the sound of the cars whizzing by was disorienting, and his legs were going to give out on him at any moment, but none of that stopped him from letting go of the Impala and staggering over towards the room.

Dean was at his side a moment later, wrapping his arms around Sam’s shoulders to steady him, which should be fine… which was fine, except… he jerked away from the touch, and Dean wasn’t holding on tight enough to keep from losing his grip. Sam went down hard, his throbbing hand taking most of the impact as he crumpled. He cradled it against his chest, instinctively pulling in on himself to protect his body from the pain.

“Sam?” Dean asked, crouching down. His brother grabbed Sam’s fist and pulled, and Sam didn’t have the strength to resist. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

“It’s s’okay,” he slurred. “Not broken, I checked.”

“Okay,” Dean reluctantly conceded, “but it’s swollen.”

“It is?” Sam muttered. Maybe not all of the pain was in his head.

Dean didn’t respond to Sam’s question, just started pulling Sam to his feet. “Come on, tough guy, let’s get you into bed.”

Sam didn’t resist and a moment later he was collapsing down onto a hard, lumpy mattress that smelled musty with age. He didn’t have the energy to complain; his body was just grateful to be prone and he relaxed into the blankets.

The sound of the doorknob turning jerked his eyes open. “Dean?” He was just short of shouting and he could hear the fear in his voice, but he couldn’t make himself shut up. “Don’t le… I… are you, are you… leaving?” he stuttered out.

“Just gonna go look for some ice for your hand.”

Sam’s world was graying out. “Oh,” he whispered. _Don’t want you to go_. He was mostly pretty sure he didn’t say the last out loud, but he was gone before he could ponder that any further.

~o0O0o~

 _You don’t know fucking everything about me anymore! You died. I changed. Get over it!_

Dean had plunged his hands into the bowls of the ice machine, and then promptly stopped to space out over the things Sam had said. It hadn’t taken long before his hands were so cold it almost felt more like they were burning than freezing. He pulled his hands free, bringing up a couple small handfuls of ice with them. God damned assholes stole the ice scoop. What the fuck? Who did that?

Sam’s lips ghosted over his own, and he brought up a cold finger to touch his mouth lightly. Sam had kissed him. He’d been dreaming, sure, but he’d whispered Dean’s name when he did it. Dean was positive he hadn’t imagined that.

He snaked his tongue out to lick a cold drop of water off his lips where he’d touched them.

 _Hands that touched and clawed and ripped. Dicks that pressed into his mouth, into his ass two at a time, dicks malformed and attached to monsters that he couldn’t push away, could never refuse..._

The ice-bucket fell to the ground, scattering ice and snapping him out of his memories. _“Fuck,”_ he muttered, fumbling for his flask to take a long, fiery swallow. His legs gave out and he sank to the floor, pushing his trembling body back against the wall. It was safer that way, when no one could sneak up on him when he wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared.

Everything was bubbling up, threatening to overwhelm him. The whiskey wasn’t enough to hold the memories back, and he let out a trembling, pained breath when his second hit drained the flask. _shit_. 

 _You're too weak… You're holding me back… too busy feeling sorry for yourself…_

Sam’s words had dug deep, twisted into his soul like corkscrews, and he’d been so outraged, and at the same time, a deeper part of himself had agreed with them. It had taken years, but everything had been so… sexualized, and Sam… he’d clung to the memory of his brother, harder and harder, and at some point, his fantasies had turned sexual.

And it hadn’t really mattered when he thought he’d never leave hell, but… alcohol helped keep him numb. He looked at his flask forlornly.

Why had Sam kissed him? It didn’t make sense.

 _Dean!_

God, Sam had sounded so… desperate, so wrecked, so… needy. Dean had almost gotten them in an accident before he got them pulled over to the side of the road, and then he hadn’t been able to wake his brother up for several long minutes there on the side of the road.

 _Hook-up. In the bar… Things got a little rough..._

Sam had been almost surprised when Dean had pulled away after he tried to kiss him. Which… No… just, no. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and Dean was fucking going to find out what it was.

In the meantime, he needed to get some ice on Sam’s hand.

~o0O0o~

Sam started awake, unsure of the cause. It was dark in the room now – he must have been out for a while. He didn’t remember dreaming though, didn’t seem to have any new pains… so maybe he’d actually slept long enough that he wouldn’t have to again for a while. He needed to pee. Maybe that was what woke him. Staying in bed much longer risked falling back to sleep again. Better to get up. He turned over, causing agony to swirl up and roll through his body like fire. A moan, accompanied by some colorful swearing, dripped from his mouth.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice was quiet in the dark room… and startlingly close. He’d assumed he was alone. The fact that he wasn’t… His eyes burned and he closed them, pressing them against his fist until they hurt. A hand glided over his shoulder, warm and comforting, sparking a tiny bit of hope that he was too afraid to fan. “Here, take these.” Dean was leaning over him, holding out a fist.

“What is it?” he rasped.

“Percocet.”

Raw panic forced out a flinch and a hoarse, “Fuck no.” His voice echoed in the quiet room, giving his fear and anger away, but he couldn’t hold it in. He slapped Dean’s hand away and forced himself to sit up. By the time his feet were on the floor he was shaking under the strain. He stopped, bracing his hands on his knees and breathing deeply to try to push past the pain.

“Dude, it’s pretty obvious you need something,” Dean said irritably, like Sam was being unreasonable.

“No, no, you don’t get to…” but Sam couldn’t make himself complete the thought. He reached over and turned on the light instead, flinching back from it when his eyes complained. Next to the bed, a ratty blanket thrown haphazardly over an uncomfortable looking chair spoke to where Dean had spent the last however long. There was only the single queen in the room – he must’ve been too tired to process that last night. It had been a long time since they’d been comfortable enough with each other to share. Sam hadn’t really given it much thought, but the realization left him with a quiet ache that was a sharp contrast to his physical pain.

He shoved himself to his feet, and he was relieved that the room was no longer spinning like it had been. The nausea seemed to be gone too, and he wasn’t sure how pathetic it made him that he felt grateful for its absence.

He staggered stiffly over to the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind him. Quickly discarding the idea of sitting, he leaned against the wall, bracing himself before popping the buttons on his jeans. He was still dressed, thank god; his shoes were missing again, but that was it.

“Sammy?” Dean was at the door a second later. “You okay?”

“I’m fine!” Sam yelled, wanting Dean and his fake fucking concern to just go away. “I can handle taking a piss by myself – been doing it for 25 years.”

“You aren’t moving like you’re fine,” Dean said patronizingly.

After a moment of silence, Sam could hear Dean moving away from the door, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Dean left him alone long enough that he could take care of business, but by the time he was through he wanted nothing more than to lie down again before he collapsed.

When Sam limped out, he was slightly disconcerted to find Dean just standing in the middle of the room, watching the bathroom door like something is going to climb out of it. He didn’t know what to say, and standing there felt awkward, so he took the high road and ignored the whole thing. He moved slowly over to the bed and collapsed down on the worn blankets.

Dean sighed heavily, “If you aren’t gonna take the drugs, then you need to start talkin’.”

Sam jerked halfway to sitting before his body slammed him back down and he hissed through the pain. He’d thought they’d finished talking on the side of the road when he’d fed Dean Lucifer’s canned lies. “What the fuck, Dean?” Sam huffed out. “What do you want me to say? You’ve made it pretty clear you think you already have all the answers. I already told you I’m not on the blood anymore. You don’t believe me? Fine. Let’s just head to Bobby’s so you can ditch me and finally get your rocks off hunting with your new angel BFF.”

“Way to sound like a twelve year old girl, Sammy.” Dean smirked, but there was no real humor behind it.

Sam closed his eyes. Dean may have been sending every signal there was that he was miraculously ready to listen, but that didn’t mean Sam was ready to talk. Not even close. He couldn’t deny that a part of him was relieved, was almost grateful, that he wasn’t able to admit anything back there. He was so fucked up.

“Look,” Dean said with a heavy sigh, “I’m still not sure I believe you, but I’m willing to hear you out. That’s something, right?”

Sam snorted, opened his mouth experimentally to tell Dean about Lucifer, but nothing came out, and the pain in his head flared sharply once more. “What else is there to say?” he sighed, giving up.

There was a long pause, and Sam buried his face in the pillow, hoping Dean would give up. He was in too much pain for a heart-to-heart right then anyway.

Sam was starting to drift when Dean eventually spoke again, “If it isn’t withdrawal, what’s been making you so sick?”

Dean’s voice jolted Sam back to consciousness, and spiking panic caused his heart to practically thud right out of his chest. The unfamiliar fear was unsettling, wrong. Dean’s voice had always been a source of comfort… Sam should sit up. It wasn’t like there was any position that was actually pain free.

Turning his head, Sam peered at Dean through his messy hair; it was too much trouble to push out of his face. If he had any answers, he’d be a hell of a lot closer to solving this thing. “Dunno. Just… I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”

“Maybe, explain why you haven’t been sleeping? It’s pretty clear there’s a bunch here that you aren’t telling me. What’s your silence supposed to be accomplishing this time?”

“I’m not…” Fuck, if they continued this conversation much longer Dean was going to ditch his ass permanently. Sam jerked up to sitting fast enough to make his head spin and his stomach to clench uncomfortably. “We should probably get on the road, you know? Maybe Bobby can help us figure this out.”

“Just, tell me what the fuck is going on!” Dean yelled, wounded.

“Just drop me at Bobby’s,” Sam whispered, exhausted. “You don’t need me dragging you down. You’ve got to focus on finding a way to stop the apocalypse.”

“Fine, we’ll go to Bobby’s and call Castiel. Maybe _he_ knows what’s going on with you. I’m gonna figure out...”

“Dean, no,” Sam interrupted. It was the first time Sam had really thought about talking to Castiel since Lucifer showed up; the mere suggestion filled Sam with a cold panic that left him chilled. The words tumbled out, almost tripping over themselves in Sam’s haste to talk Dean out of his new plan. “I started the fucking apocalypse – this isn’t a simple salt and burn that you can ask someone else to take care of - finding a way to fix that has to be your priority. Lucifer is focused on me, I mean, focused on finding me right now, which means, you can maybe get the jump on him. Maybe I can try to find a way to keep him distracted for you while you and Cas figure out what to do.” _At this point I’m not good for much else_.

“Yeah,” Dean snorted, “not gonna happen. Get your ass in the car.”

Dean… didn’t believe him, was looking beyond the obvious for answers. The relief at that realization stung Sam’s eyes, making everything blurry.

Dean didn’t wait for Sam to follow him out, but on the way he picked up Sam’s bags as well as his own. It was the first real hint of hope Sam had had in a long time. He’d take it.


	8. Part Seven

**Part Seven**

They had been in the car for several hours by the time they stopped for breakfast, and Sam had only barely been able to stop himself from begging Dean for a break. Only the fear of Dean’s questions kept his mouth shut.

The thought of sitting in a hard plastic booth was enough to make him whimper though. “Go get yourself a real breakfast, but just grab a muffin or something for me, okay? I’m still not sure I can keep anything down, and I’m still tired – gonna crash out in the back seat while you do that.”

Dean gave him a long look, and then finally replied, “I think we should call Cas now instead of later.”

“No!” The word came out more like a yelp and Sam flushed when Dean gave him another look. “I mean… I…”

Dean’s eyes filled with compassion and he put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, what…”

“Just go, Dean. Bring me back something. I just want to lay down for a bit. I won’t fall asleep – I promise.” The thought of Cas knowing… just, no. The very idea made him feel like throwing up. He wasn’t going to be able to talk Dean out of calling the angel, he knew this, but he was not ready to face him. Not yet.

Dean shook his head, but grudgingly gave in. “We’ll be at Bobby’s in a few more hours. After that, we’re calling Cas.”

Sam opened the door and climbed out on unsteady legs. He leaned against the Impala, letting the sun-warmed metal support his aching body. He wouldn’t be able to stay standing for long, but while he could manage it, it was almost heaven. “Fine,” he mumbled.

Dean looked at him for several more minutes, awkwardness and uncertainty warring for dominance across his features. It was clear he wanted to say something, but neither one of them knew what. Finally, with a sharp shake of his head, he turned and went into the restaurant.

~o0O0o~

He shifts against the soft sheets, relishing in the silky coolness against his skin.

“It’s about time.”

Lucifer’s smooth, predatory drawl sends Sam scrambling backwards across the bed. He doesn’t remember deciding to fall asleep, doesn’t even remember lying down. “What…”

“Come here, Samuel,” Lucifer orders angrily. It’s the first time the angel seemed anything other than in control. Dread pools in Sam’s stomach, an uncomfortable roiling weight.

Lucifer’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Sam reluctantly moves closer. He’s not sure he can do this anymore, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. As soon as Sam’s close enough, Lucifer’s hand closes around his chin, the grip hard enough to bruise. Cruel lips descend down towards his, and something in Sam snaps. He pulls his fist back and throws a hard punch that lands perfectly against Lucifer’s left cheek and eye.

The punch snaps Lucifer’s face to the side and tears a gash into his peeling skin. Sam readies himself to land a second, but Lucifer calmly reaches out and grabs Sam’s fist. It’s like Sam’s hand has been encased in cement, he can’t move in Lucifer’s grasp, and Lucifer looks barely phased by Sam’s struggles.

Lucifer leans forward while Sam claws futilely at his trapped hand, gets close enough that Sam can feel hot breath against his neck. “Stop.” The word is forceful and deadly calm, but still Sam can’t force himself to obey. He abandons his attempts to free himself and reaches out to claw at Lucifer’s face, searching out the more vulnerable places, hoping to hurt, unable to think beyond the need to fight back for once.

Lucifer mutters something in Enochian, and suddenly Sam’s pinned to the bed, rough ropes, tight enough to cut into his skin, holding him spread eagle and vulnerable once more. There’s absolutely no give, his legs and arms are stretched tight to the four corners of the bed, so tight that his hip and shoulder joints are already aching, already stretching to the point of pain, so tight that too much movement on the soft bed could easily pull his joints right out of their sockets. “Let me go you fucking pervert,” he yells, spittle flying from his mouth with his anger. “You can’t keep me here forever. You don’t control me when I’m awake. I’m going to find a way to send you straight back to hell!”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lucifer slides a hand obscenely over Sam’s mouth and holds it closed. Sam continues to scream his rage through closed lips, but it isn’t near as satisfying. Lucifer simply sits, waiting calmly, and eventually, Sam screams himself hoarse, and is forced to stop. Lucifer slowly takes his hand away and stares at Sam, his face expressionless.

The silence stretches on uncomfortably, and Sam focuses on getting his breathing under control again instead. He feels like an idiot for losing control like that, but he thinks his inability to do anything about his current predicament may be slowly driving him insane. The thought is more comforting than it should be; it feels like giving up, but if he’s lost in his own mind, he won’t be able to give consent either.

“Are you done?” Lucifer finally asks mildly.

“Fuck you,” Sam rasps back. Their eyes lock, and Sam tries to hold eye contact, but Lucifer is still as a stone, his gaze inscrutable, and Sam finally looks away. Somehow, his dreams have become Lucifer’s playground; he has no power here and he knows it.

“You wake up when I let you. If I wanted to, I could keep you here forever.”

Sam doesn’t react. He’s done fighting, for now, but he’ll be damned if he gives the fucker the pleasure of a reaction.

“It would probably be easier on you if I did,” Lucifer continues conversationally. “At least then you wouldn’t have to keep waking up and facing the consequences of what happens here. Much harder to pretend this isn’t real, much harder to simply lose yourself in the pain. Do you want me to keep you here?”

Sam seals his lips together, refusing to answer. Refusing to rise to the bait. At least as long as Lucifer’s in a talking mood, he isn’t making Sam’s life a living hell.

Lucfier’s hand caresses down his chest, pauses to play with the hair that leads to Sam’s groin. Sam can’t help the small sound of protest that escapes, though it leaves him feeling weak. “You’re mine, Sam. Say yes, and this will all be over.”

Sam swallows his fear down. If Dean could hold out for thirty years, Sam can hold out longer. “Never.”

“You know, your brother isn’t going to want to be near you when he finds out what you’ve been dreaming about doing with him. I did you a kindness preventing you from talking about it. Ditch him, Sam. Ditch him before he has the chance to do it to you first.”

Lucifer’s probably right about that one, and the words feel like a punch in his gut, the pain of it almost enough for him to miss when Lucifer continues his exploration of Sam’s body, tracing down to Sam’s balls and taking hold of them to gently massage them. It sends a shiver of pleasure through Sam’s body, and he pulls against the ropes holding him, hoping to find a weak point in the bindings, but there’s nothing. He can’t pull away, and Lucifer leans forward and mouths his sack, sucking on his balls sensuously, first one and then the other.

It feels good, and Sam bucks against him, trying to push him away, but Lucifer only pushes his hips down against the mattress, his hands an immovable force. Sam can feel his dick straining upwards as the assault continues, Lucifer’s wet hot mouth sending sparks of pleasure rippling through him. He cries out, willing his reaction away, but it does nothing to stop the pleasure cresting, and then spilling over as he pulses come across his stomach.

“Stop, please. Just leave me alone,” he whispers. Shameful tears creep down the sides of his face, but the ropes keep him exposed, unable to hide them or wipe them away.

Lucifer sits up and looks at him coldly. “Are you going to walk away from your brother like I told you to?”

Sam looks at Lucifer, confused, but when Lucifer doesn’t elaborate, Sam shakes his head once in denial.

“Then this only gets worse for you. I have infinite patience, Samuel, but I bore easily, and I tire of this wait. Start doing what I tell you to do, or I will make sure that you regret it.”

“Why the sudden concern over my brother?”

“I thought I’d give you something a little easier to say yes to. This one’s almost a kindness.”

“I’m not saying yes to you. Not about anything,” Sam replies firmly.

“You will change your mind eventually. Of that I have no doubt.” Almost faster than Sam can process, Lucifer shifts position and yanks Sam’s torso further down the bed. Both shoulders pop simultaneously, and Sam’s too busy frantically trying to breathe through the blinding pain to notice Lucifer pulling Sam’s knees up as far as the ropes allow. He can feel the harsh hemp cutting into his ankles, but he doesn’t have time to really process that before Lucifer is forcing his dick into Sam’s body in one long, steady push. The agony of unprepared penetration tips Sam over the edge, causes Sam to scream out despite the rawness in his throat, despite his vows to hold them in.

He struggles to catch his breath between his cries so he can breathe through the pain, but the terrible ache is building faster than Sam can get ahead of. Lucifer bottoms out quickly, and he lowers his head down next to Sam’s, sucks Sam’s ear lobe into his mouth and bites down hard. It’s impossible that such a small hurt could even register compared to the fire in his shoulders, compared to what the angel’s doing to his ass, but somehow, it heightens everything.

“Please, stop,” he begs.

Lucifer settles into place inside Sam’s ass and covers Sam’s mouth with his own. Lucifer’s dick is an unyielding presence inside of him, sharp and stabbing even without any movement as he explores Sam slowly with his tongue, like he has all the time in the world. The kiss is slow and intimate, almost loving in sharp contrast with everything else, and all Sam can do is lay there passively and pray that Lucifer finishes with this torment soon.

The kiss goes on and on. Sam has no control, no choices here, and he tries to zone out under the lazy attentions, tries to lose himself in his thoughts and pretend he isn’t where his, an unwilling pawn in an Angel’s game of chess. Every time he gets close, though, Lucifer pulls out and then rams back inside, reminding Sam where he is, making Sam’s ass clench and burn around the hot poker buried inside of him, dragging him back inside his head with the fresh agony that he can’t anticipate.

Still the onslaught continues, until Sam can’t hold in his tears any longer and they slide down the sides of his face like liquid ice that burns as it falls. Lucifer doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t stop until everything is becoming surreal around him, and he’s no longer sure where he is, or how long he’s been there.

Lucifer’s cruel laughter pulls him back to himself, and he whimpers when the devil pulses out and back in, starting up a rhythm of pain that fills Sam with hope that this might possibly end, at some point.

Lucifer pulls out and then pushes back in with a groan of pleasure. “You’re so tight, need to loosen you up.” Sam isn’t sure what Lucifer even means by that, but he can’t ask, can only sob in response when a finger slides in alongside Lucifer’s dick. He’d thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, but he was wrong. It feels like Lucifer is trying to split him in two, and, given the tearing Sam can feel, he might well succeed. Somehow, a second finger gets added in, then a third, a fourth, and Sam’s never felt so full. His body is cramping around the intrusion, trying to expel the foreign, unwanted flesh filling him. There’s nothing he can do as he feels blood pooling under him in a warm sticky mess.

Lucifer rams home and stills, his face only centimeters from Sam’s as he pants heavily.

“Please,” Sam rasps out, pleading for his sanity, for an end.

“Leave your brother.”

“No.”

“Then you won’t be looking on his face any time soon.”

“What…” Sam gasps out, but he doesn’t have time to finish the question before Lucifer rips his fingers free of Sam’s ass, forcing an agonized scream from Sam’s throat. A moment later Lucifer wraps his hands around Sam’s face like a vice, his thumbs pressing hard against Sam’s eyes.

“No! Please!” Sam screams, bucking wildly under Lucifer’s body, trying fruitlessly to push him off.

Sam didn’t think anything could be worse than the pain of his rape mere moments before. He was wrong. Lucifer’s dick, still buried to the hilt in his ass, is forgotten as thumbs continue to dig into Sam’s eyes, working themselves under Sam’s lids. The burn of contact is intense, but the pressure on his eyes is worse. Time seems to stand still for a moment, the pressure increasing as Sam holds his breath, praying for Lucifer to stop. _No! He’ll be worthless to Dean without his sight_. Losing _anything_ else would allow him to at least research, but blindness? He can feel the hard edge of nails cutting into his sockets, has time to plead silently one last time for God to intervene, and then there’s a quiet, sickening popping noise, and liquid gore spills over his face. Pain like he’s never known explodes through his head, chasing him into blessed oblivion.

~o0O0o~

A throbbing pain in the front of his head filled his awareness first, demanding his attention. He groaned and turned his face only to feel the scrape of gravel against his sensitized skin. Jerking back from the unforgiving ground, he looked around, trying to figure out where he was. It was completely dark, no light, not even stars, which made little sense if he was outside. He dropped his head into his hands, thinking to put pressure on his aching head, but agony raced across the front of his face with the contact, and he snatched his hands back with a yelp.

He flailed a hand out, looking for some sort of clue for what was going on, and managed to slam it against the side of the Impala. The Impala... He was with Dean, waiting at the Impala when… No. No, no, no, no, no….

He scrambled upright, thrusting his hands out and around until he made contact with the cool metal of the Impala, painfully maneuvering himself until he was sitting on the ground with the car reassuringly at his back. Carefully, he reached up and gently ran his fingers against his face. Even the light contact sparked a fiery flare of pain, but he didn’t stop, far too frantic to know the full extent of the injuries. He could tell his face was swollen and raw, could tell his eyelids were so inflamed they could barely open, which, maybe that was why he couldn’t see anything. Everything would be all right once the swelling went down, right? This wasn’t permanent. _It couldn’t be permanent…_

“Sam?” Dean’s voice floated across the parking lot. He sounded confused and mildly annoyed. “Where the hell did you go?”

He was shaking violently, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to call out. Wrapping his arms around himself instead, he fought for a moment to open his eyes more than they were, but only succeeded in intensifying the pain.

Dean’s footsteps came to a halt on the other side of the car. “Sam?” he shouted again, more angrily than the last.

Sam still couldn’t make himself respond. He didn’t want Dean to see him like this; it might make his lack of sight real. There was nothing he could do to stop his brother from walking around the car though, and suddenly, Dean was a solid presence in front of him. “Fuck, Sam! What the hell happened to your face?”

Sam opened his mouth to tell Dean about the dream, to plead with him to find a way to fix it, but he didn’t recognize the words that come out instead. “I dunno, Dean. I was stretching my legs and something came at me from behind. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Jesus H. fucking Christ,” Dean muttered angrily. His brother’s hands were moving shakily over Sam’s skin and he stiffened, struggling not to pull away from the trail of hurt left in their wake. “This is… Shit, this is bad,” Dean said, the fear palpable in his tone. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“No!” Sam shouted reflexively, causing Dean to pull back. Sam flailed out, managed to capture Dean’s hand to keep him from moving away. “No, please. No hospital. Just, get me to Bobby’s, okay?”

“But your eyes…”

“No! I don’t care. Please, just listen to me for once. I said no!” Sam yelled, unable to mask the pleading edge of his demand.

“I… yeah. Yeah, okay, Sammy, okay.” Dean’s arms curled around him, and the desire to collapse into them was strong, but Dean was pulling him up, and Sam didn’t have it in him to fight. “Lemme get you into the back seat, and then we’ll go, okay?”

The world felt like it was spinning around him as he moved vertically, and he clutched at Dean’s arm like a lifeline. A pounding, roaring noise built in his ears, effectively cutting him off from anything but touch, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful when unconsciousness claimed him once again.

~o0O0o~ 

Sam’s entire body was shaking as Dean manhandled him into the first motel room he’d been able to find. His brother was probably going into shock. The blood loss alone would probably be enough for that. _No hospital_ … _Fuck_ , how could he not take his brother to the hospital? Jesus.

His eyes strayed once more to the gory mess that was his brother’s face. A fucking field medic just wasn’t going to cut it this time.

Where the hell was Cas? He’d called the angel on the road and gave him their location, but Cas was taking his fucking sweet time getting here.

There was a large group of bikers staying in the motel Dean had found. As bad a shape as Sam was in, he really didn’t want to risk a fireman’s carry, but he had to get his brother inside before somebody saw Sam’s face and called the police. The guy that’d gone to fetch ice a few minutes ago walked back into view, eyeing the Impala appreciatively as he moved to the room next to Dean’s and went inside.

Fuck. He couldn’t wait for Cas anymore. He was going to have to risk it.

Sam barely reacted as Dean pulled him from the car, and he managed to get his brother into the room without incident. He’d actually succeeded in getting Sam onto the stripped down bed and had thrown a blanket over him when Cas’ voice startled him from behind. “Dean? What…”

“Please,” Dean husked out without taking his eyes off his brother. “Tell me it’s not as bad as it looks. Tell me there’s something… anything, you can do,”

Cas walked slowly forward and sat down on the bed next to Sam, opposite Dean. He reached out a hand and then stopped, casting an anxious look at Dean. “It is… highly unlikely that I will be able to fix him.”

“Damn it, Cas. Just try, okay?” Dean replied impatiently.

“Of course.” He turned his gaze back to Sam and rested his hand lightly against Sam’s forehead. After a moment, he moved down and gently peeled back one of Sam’s swollen eyelids as much as he could.

Dean couldn’t hold in his horrified moan. Sam’s eye was… he turned around, unable to watch anymore and leaned against the wooden dresser, gripping the edge hard enough to make it creak.   

Sam’s anguished voice echoed across the room. “Dean?”

Dean whirled around to find Cas already standing up, looking down at Sam who was clearly still asleep but starting to curl in on himself.

“I am sorry, Dean. There is little I can do.”

“No…”

“Even if I was still able to heal,” Castiel interupted sharply, “I would not be able to do much. His injuries are, in addition to mostly healed, also… protected from interference.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean growled.

“There is something… wrong… about him. He has been touched by something more powerful than myself. It is beyond my ability to affect that claim. Sam now harbors within him a great evil.”

“You mean he’s back on the demon blood? No. No, there’s something going on here besides his addiction,” Dean relied, shaking his head angrily. He took a step towards the angel, daring Cas to contradict him. “There’s more to this than that. I know there is.”

Cas looked from him to Sam, his worry clear. “At this point, I can’t tell you more. I… I will do everything I can to find out though. Meanwhile,” he returned his gaze to Dean, looking far more serious, “I am sorry, Dean, but you must watch him.”

Dean looked at Sam, and in that moment, Cas was gone. He was drawn to the bed, unable to stay away any longer. Sam’s restless dreams had quieted, and in sleep he looked like he always did, vulnerable and young. Dean swallowed his hurt and anger down, let himself look at his brother with an eye to something beyond simple withdrawal for the first time in weeks.

Sam had lost weight, his clothes were hanging on him, and that was hardly surprising – Dean couldn’t actually remember the last time Sam had consumed anything besides coffee heavily doused with cream and sugar. Sam’s lips and skin were dry and peeling slightly. Dean pushed a finger into Sam’s mouth and confirmed that his brother was probably dehydrated. He knew Sam hadn’t been sleeping, and had been nauseous more than once… but all of that could be explained by Sam being back on the demon blood and just not getting enough to keep his body stable. 

His eyes though. That made no sense, the fact that they were already mostly healed made even less... and Sam had been moving like he was in pain since they’d reunited at the bridge. More pain than was really reasonable to ascribe to muscle aches from withdrawal, if Dean were honest. He hadn’t wanted it to be anything else though, hadn’t wanted to look for any other explanation – as much as it killed a part of him, the addiction was still something Dean could do something about. If it had been more… fuck, if it had been more and Dean hadn’t even noticed… 

Guilt stabbed through his head, the angry pulse of a burgeoning headache. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he whispered, moving a strand of hair from Sam’s overheated forehead. He steeled himself, then pulled Sam up to sitting so he could peel off the hoodie his brother was wearing, as well as the shirt underneath. He lowered Sam back down and his brother didn’t even stir.

Dean closed his eyes with a startled whimper and it took him a moment before he could force himself to open them again and look at the ugly burn that marred Sam’s upper left chest. The tattoo was completely obscured, no trace of the black ink remained under the twisted, gnarled skin. Dean reached out and ran a finger just along the edge.

It was the shape of a hand.

His eyes were burning but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t go back to pretending that this was nothing Sam hadn’t brought on himself. A long, straight scar ran across Sam’s chest, and Dean leaned closer, looking carefully. There was more than one, most of the scars faint but reasonably clear to a trained eye. They looked like they’d been placed by a whip. _A fucking whip._

Dean was nauseous, but he knew he needed to keep it together, so he pushed the cold terror in his stomach away. He’d already seen the bruises that decorated Sam’s neck, but they stood out starkly now against his brother’s pale skin. He picked up Sam’s hand again, prepared to try to figure out what had caused the swelling, and swore out loud. Sam’s wrist, both his wrists, Dean quickly confirmed, were circled with half healed scrapes and burns. Rope burns. Dean would stake his forty years in hell on it.

All of Sam’s joints, starting at his wrists and all the way up to his shoulders, showed evidence of hyper extension, and now that he was looking for it, he could tell that both of Sam’s shoulders had been dislocated at some point and were still healing. Quickly, efficiently, Dean stripped off the rest of brother’s clothes, easily revealing the matching marks on Sam’s ankles. Dean shook with the effort to keep going, to keep his reaction bottled up inside. He needed to stay clinical. This was just another case. Just another case...

Sam’s legs were covered with bruises, some old, some new, impossible to say if there had been more that were simply already healed. More evidence of severe joint strain. More faint, very faint, whip marks that started just above Sam’s knees and worked their way up to Sam’s hips.

Dean’s emotions slipped out, a choked back gasp of despair that echoed through the room as he looked at Sam’s groin, almost black in places from the deep bruising that covered the area. “No…” he moaned, watching almost in slow motion as he griped Sam’s hip and rolled him onto his side. Sam’s backside was a bloody mess. Multiple assaults, and probably things bigger than a cock, would have been needed to cause that much damage.

Dean lurched up and grabbed a blanket off the other bed, and he managed to get it over his brother before sinking down to the floor, shaking so badly it was getting hard to breathe.

Memories of hell crashed over him in waves. The whip Alastair had loved to use in the beginning, back before he’d had to get creative in order to get a response out of Dean, licked its way across his skin. It left fire behind each time it struck, snaking over his back again and again, until Dean was screaming helplessly for his brother. Wretched tears slipped down his face as he begged shamelessly for Sam, even though he hoped to hell his brother had no way of hearing him, prayed that Sam had found a way to live a good life like he’d always wanted.

Alastair’s hands smoothed tenderly over his skin as he fought against his restraints, unable to stop the unwanted touch. _Dean, give yourself to me and this will all be over…_ The words were relentless, but Dean had said no. He’d said no over and over again, and Alastair had just laughed at him and said that Dean would say yes, eventually.

The woman tied up next to him had been young, pretty, and her tear-filled eyes and fearful whimpers were etched eternally into his soul. Alastair had given him a choice, asked him if he’d submit to his own rape, or if he’d prefer instead for Alastair take the girl.

Alastair’s dick had torn into his ass like acid. Dean had offered himself up, ass in the air, a willing participant, all for the sake of that brown-eyed girl. When Alastair had finished using Dean like a two-bit whore, the demon had asked the woman if she wanted to help, and she’d climbed off the rack without even thinking about it, joining in with gleeful abandon.

…and the whole time that had been happening, Dean had clung to the fact that he knew, he _knew_ , that Sam was doing what he’d asked, that Sam had stayed away from Ruby, from what she’d offered, and was making Dean proud with the life he was leading.

Making Dean’s sacrifice worth it.

Dean had been willing to give, willing to do, anything for that.

“Dean?” Sam’s pained moan cut through the fog of his memories.

Alastair’s hands clutched at him, trying to pull him back.

 _Stop it… stop it…_ Dean gripped his right shoulder tightly, his hand placed over Castiel’s brand. He let Castiel’s grace fill him, let Castiel’s grace push the memories back into hiding, where they wouldn’t do as much harm. Cas had saved him in more ways than one when he’d pulled Dean out of the pit. And then Dean had let Sam experience some of the same agonies Dean had gone through, but without any kind of safety net to keep him anchored, to keep him sane. _Fuck_

Without even realizing it, he’d somehow managed to pull himself around so he was sitting on the floor with his back against the opposite bed. He could see that Sam wasn’t actually awake, just writhing in the grip of his nightmares. Sam needed him. It was time for the both of them to stop being a pawn for heaven and hell’s shell games. They were going to have to find a way to help each other or the weight of their combined sins was going to crush them both.

He heaved in a ragged breath and wiped fiercely at his wet face. He had work to do.

~o0O0o~

“Sammy…” Lucifer’s tone is mocking, and the name, his name, seems to echo around him.

His eyes are open but there is only blackness. He doesn’t know where he is. “Dean?” he shouts. Fear makes his voice tremble, makes him sound weak. He’s no longer sure he isn’t weak, isn’t a worthless failure. Come to think of it, he hasn’t been sure of that for a long time.

There’s no answer to his call, and he stands slowly, moving forward with outstretched hands, searching for something tangible to hold on to. There’s nothing. It’s neither cold nor hot here, but he wraps his hands around his naked torso anyway. It’s better than nothing.

He continues stumbling forward, faster now, madly trying to find some glimmer of hope in the empty abyss he’s found himself in. “Dean?” he calls out again, letting the panicked word echo out endlessly. There’s nothing here. He’s alone in a vast space he can’t even begin to fathom. “Dean!” He begins to run, uncaring of where he’s going as long as he’s moving away from…here.

The ground turns ragged and sharp, but he doesn’t slow, can’t slow, despite the wounds he’s tearing into his feet, his blood likely leaving a gory trail in his wake. He keeps running until his feet give out, and he’s falling. The ground is gone and he’s moving through the air so fast it’s hard to breathe, the air a constant roar in his ears. He wonders if this means he’s finally going to die. He’ll end up in hell, he knows, but the thought doesn’t add to his terror. He can get used to the pain; it’s living with the consequences of abuse that terrifies him.

He hits the ground unexpectedly, but it isn’t hard. It catches him and slows his fall, before finally bouncing him back, tossing him gently into the air, but only a foot or two. He lands a second time in a graceless heap on solid ground. There’s someone behind him, he knows it a mere moment before a warm hand is trailing down the skin of his back.

“Dean?” he gasps out hopefully. The cold chuckle feels like a vise closing on his heart. He scrambles to his feet, launching himself upwards painfully and staggering forward as fast as his damaged feet allow.

Lucifer doesn’t follow. “You can’t run from me, Samuel. Stop running and all of this will be over.”

Sam doesn’t slow despite the well of doom the words evoke. He needs his brother to keep him anchored, to keep him from floating away into nothing. “Dean!”

“What?”

At the sound of the annoyed response, Sam whirls around only to lose his balance and fall ass first onto the ground. “Dean?” he questions breathlessly, looking around despite the never-ending black.

“What the hell, Sam? I thought I told you to stay put.”

“I…” Sam stammers. He doesn’t remember Dean saying that, doesn’t remember talking to Dean at all.

“I gotta go back out on the hunt. I can’t do that while I’m constantly worrying about your ass.”

“Please don’t leave me alone,” Sam begs. The words are pounding, screaming in his head, but they come out petulant and rasping with unshed tears.

“Jesus, fuck, Sam! The apocalypse is coming. I don’t have time to babysit your ass. You brought this on yourself anyway.” Dean moves away, opens an unknown door and exits, slamming the door behind him.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Lucifer whispers, his lips warm against Sam’s. Lucifer straddles Sam, pulls their naked bodies together as one hand caresses down Sam’s spine and the other drops to Sam’s dick. “There’s nothing left for you in the world, Sam. Nothing but pain. Stop fighting me.” Lucifer strokes along Sam’s length teasingly, making Sam arch up against the touch, seeking more. Sam circles his arms around Lucifer, completing their embrace, desperate for the momentary oblivion of orgasm. For the first time, he’s not positive he won’t eventually say yes.

~o0O0o~

“Sam?” Dean’s anxious voice cut through the pounding in his head, pulling him towards consciousness. He fought against it for a few moments, desperate to escape the pain he knew was waiting for him, but an insistent shaking on his shoulder made him give up the fight with a small moan.

“Come on, Sam, wake up. Those are clearly some _awesome_ dreams you’re having, but… let it go, man. They aren’t real. Wake up.”

Sam started to roll over, intent on burying his head in the pillow, but the increased pressure made the pain shoot sparks of agony through his head, and he gave it up with a barely held back whimper. “Dean?” he croaked out. It hurt to talk, his throat felt like the desert, and his hand moved on its own to wrap around it, as if that would make a difference. “Water?”

“Yeah. Right here. Lemme help you up.”

“Not an invalid,” he muttered back, but he was too weak to push Dean’s help away.

Dean only snorted in response. Once Sam was up and leaning against Dean, he felt the curved edge of a bottle against his lower lip, and swallowed down the water that followed gratefully.

Sam quickly drained the entire bottle of the water, but Dean didn’t move away. His brother was holding him like he hadn’t since Sam was a little kid. It felt good. He couldn’t bring himself to break the silence, wished idly that they could stay like this forever. His eyes were still closed. He was afraid to try to open them. It couldn’t be as bad as he’d thought before. Everything else had healed. Mostly. This was just one more injury that never happened.

“Where are we?” he rasped.

Dean took a deep breath. “Motel room. What…”

Suddenly Sam was talking, desperate for Dean not to ask about what had happened. “How bad is it?” He didn’t really want the answer, wanted to go back to the peaceful silence they’d been sharing only moments before, but the question was out now and he couldn’t take it back.

There was a long pause, and Sam suddenly wanted to be anywhere but where he was, except that he couldn’t seem to make himself move, couldn’t seem to make himself leave Dean’s comforting hold. “It’s… it’s pretty bad, Sammy. Can you… can you open your eyes?”

“I think so,” Sam responded. He had to struggle against himself for a moment before his eyes sluggishly opened. It hurt; his lids were still swollen and raw. The lack of light, however, didn’t change. “Are the lights out?” he whispered.

He could feel Dean’s hitched breath against his back. “It’s mid-afternoon. The sun’s shining right into the room. Your eyes… they look like they burst, and then… somehow partially healed during the time I was in the restaurant. What the hell happened?”

Sam was too busy processing what Dean had said about his sight to stop the inevitable question, and he wanted to scream in protest, but what came out was a calmly stated, “I already told you, something supernatural attacked me from behind. I didn’t see it.”

“Cut the crap, Sam!” Dean barked out angrily. “You’ve got injuries all over your body that aren’t consistent with what you just said. Who’s been hurting you?”

No. No, no, no. Please, god, he didn’t want Dean to know. Not that. Sam pulled away, needing freedom from Dean’s grasp now as much as he had wanted to be held earlier. He moved to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the ground, let his hands settle in his lap. “No one.”

“Bullshit! You’ve got… I know what I saw, Sam. I know what causes those kinds of injuries.”

“I asked for it, okay?” _What?_

“Excuse me?” Dean asked incredulously, echoing Sam’s sentiment. The bed shifted as Dean stood up.

Sam wished he could predict what was going to come out of his traitorous mouth before he actually said it. Maybe then he could do some damage control. “I’ve been sneaking out, meeting up with demons. They give me blood for… they just want stuff in return, okay?”

“You told me you weren’t on the blood anymore. I thought we were through with the lies?” Dean’s voice was flat, emotionless. Sam desperately wished he could see his brother’s face.

“It doesn’t fuel my powers anymore, but… I still need it. I just do. It’s not hurting anyone Dean! Why do you care? I figured if I didn’t admit it, you’d eventually shut the fuck up about it, but obviously, you can’t let anything go.” It felt like someone was drilling a corkscrew into Sam’s forehead, and he kind of wished that that really was what was happening. Dean had to be through with him now. Sam was on his own.

The silence stretched on so long, Sam was beginning to think Dean had left the room, had used Sam’s sightlessness to slip away so he didn’t have to deal with his crippled brother anymore.

Sam practically jumped out of his skin when Dean cleared his throat. “I, uh, called Castiel while we were waiting for you to come to. He said there wasn’t anything he could do for you. Seemed pretty mystified about that. He did try, though.”

Sam wasn’t sure if it was irony that his tear ducts still worked, or specific intent on Lucifer’s part, but the moisture suddenly tracking down his face was somehow unsurprising. The weight of Dean’s words was crushing him. He couldn’t stay in the fight if he couldn’t see. Lucifer was going to win. Sam couldn’t see any way past that anymore.

“You should lock me in the panic room before you leave,” Sam muttered, letting the tears he couldn’t see drop unheeded onto his hands.

“Oh, yeah? Where am I going?” Dean asked dryly.

Sam’s face twisted in confusion. “The apocalypse? You and Cas need to go stop it, now that I’m out of the fight.”

“You aren’t out of the fight yet. I haven’t given up on finding a way to fix this.” It occurred to Sam that Dean hadn’t sounded disgusted with him a heartbeat before Dean’s hand was resting solidly on his shoulder. “Not sure why you’re still lying to me, Sam, but…” Sam could feel Dean shift slightly closer to him, his tone determined, “I think I’m finally starting to figure out what might be truth and what’s just more lies. I have a feeling Lucifer’s more wrapped up in what’s been going on than you’ve been letting on. I am gonna figure this out, though. I… I’m not leaving this time. I’ve got your back, okay?”

Sam opened his mouth but couldn’t form any words, finally settled on just nodding his head.

Dean squeezed his shoulder once, reassuringly, before leaving the room.

~o0O0o~

The thump of his heart is loud enough to echo around the room, muffling the other sounds as it beats a persistent, frantic rhythm against his chest. A man is behind him, thrusting into his body in a beat out of time with his heart. It’s Tim. He’s not sure how he knows, but he’s sick with the knowledge. Tim shudders to a stop, pulses his orgasm into Sam with obscene grunts and groans. Sam’s ass is still clenching and fluttering around Tim’s dick, trying to push it out when the man pulls out of Sam roughly, laughing when Sam fails once again to hold in his gasp of pain.

The sound of Tim’s laughter grows, mocking and sadistic, growing until it echoes around the room, loud enough to drown out his heartbeat.

Sam’s cheek is still pressed against the wall he was just fucked against, and the abraded skin hurts, but he’s too paralyzed with fear to move. The countless line of men who stand behind him predatorily waiting their turn are just faceless shadows in the relentless dark, every bit as terrifying as the worst monster he’s ever fought. He desperately wants his sight back – he can’t fight without it.

A harsh grip on his shoulder pulls him away from the wall, and then he’s pushed hard enough to make him stumble into the middle of the room. He falls clumsily over what he thinks is a chair, his naked, abused body sprawling out in a painful display. Loud laughter erupts around him again, this time from all directions, forming an echoing cacophony in the large space. Despite the pain, he stiffly pulls himself into a crouch, kicking away the chair, trying to guard against his attackers even though he can’t see a damn thing.

He hears someone approaching from behind, and he lurches forward, only to fall over a foot that’s been extended in front of him. He lands gracelessly, the wind knocked out of him, taken out of the fight before it even had time to get started. Just fucking him isn’t enough – they get off on making him look like a fool as well.

The new round of derisive snickers doesn’t fade, growing louder, more mocking and vicious with every passing moment, until he’s forced to clasp his hands over his ears in a fruitless attempt to block out the noise. “Stop it!” he screams desperately into the dissonance.

A hand falls heavily, possessively, on his shoulder, and the laughter is simultaneously silenced. He jerks around, aiming a swing at what he hopes is the man’s face, but he misses completely, his fist easily blocked. A solid punch sends him sprawling back down to the ground. “Thought I taught you better than that, Son.”

“Dad?” Sam whispers incredulously. A crushing need to conceal his nudity drops him where he stands, and he immediately curls in on himself. With a hand entwining tightly into his hair, his dad pulls him up to sitting. Sam flails out, hoping to find his dad’s face so he can at least feel that he’s real. Somehow, his hands don’t connect with anything.

“You’re holding Dean back, Sam. You’re worthless to the hunt now. More burden than anything. You should run away, hide under a rock somewhere so you can’t be used to hurt him. Without your sight, you’re completely useless to the only hunter left in our family. Hell, all you’re really good for is being a fuck toy now. Come to think of it, I’m the only one who hasn’t gotten a piece!” His dad’s yelling by the end, spittle flying. Sam can feel the wet drops splattering on his face and chest.

Dad pushes him roughly to the ground, face forward, a large hand seeking out his ass, and he screams as he tries to scramble away, horror robbing him of coherent speech.

~o0O0o~

He jerked to sitting, gasping in frantic gulps of air, shaking violently. _Just a dream_ , just another stupid, fucked-up nightmare that his brain seemed to supply every time he managed to drift off over the last several days.

His Dad being there, though, that was new.

The memory of his father’s hand on his ass forced out a sob, which turned into a fit of coughing that was aggravated by his dry throat. He reached out blindly for the glass of water that he knew was left on the nightstand for him, barely managed to keep himself from yelling in frustration when he hit it wrong and it hurtled to the ground with a shattering crash.

 _Fuck._ He froze on the bed for several minutes, waiting for Dean to bustle in to rescue his pathetic ass from his latest mistake. Nothing happened. He was pretty sure the door was shut. It stayed that way. Finally, he kicked the tangled covers off and cautiously scooted himself down to the end of the bed to climb off. Even if he could see where the glass was to sweep it up, the only broom he knew of was downstairs.

His throat was so dry, he wasn’t sure he could yell for help. He needed some fucking water before he did anything else. He took a couple steps to the left towards the door he knew was there, and registered the sting in his foot just a moment too late to prevent the broken glass from slicing in deeply. Too angry to let that stop him, he grabbed the door handle roughly, slamming it open and moving out into the hall.

~o0O0o~

“Dean,” Cas said, appearing directly behind Dean in a very deliberate attempt to startle him. Dean had come to the conclusion that the stoic angel secretly delighted in doing that. His lack of human understanding was a purposeful façade designed so he could get his jollies off fucking with them all. Cas was too ancient, too intelligent, for it to be otherwise.

Taking a minute to calm his nerves, he turned around slowly and drawled, “Cas.”

“I believe I have located the Colt. I will require your assistance to proceed, however.”

“What? Where is it?”

“There are whispers that a Demon named Crowley may have had dealings with Bella shortly before she disappeared. The demon is cunning though, I have been unable to get close enough to confirm anything. The places he treads seem to be warded against angels.”

“Well, that’s awesome, Cas, but you’re gonna need to find someone else to be your lackey this time. My dance card’s already a little full.”

Cas looked at him impatiently. “I understand you want to be here for your brother, Dean, but I don’t believe that that makes finding a way to stop Armageddon no longer important. Do you?”

Dean sighed angrily, “Important? Of course it is. But find another hunter for this one.”

“There isn’t anyone else, Dean,” Bobby interrupted. “If I could, I would, but it’s not like I could do it right now.”

Cas put a placating hand on Dean’s shoulder, “I understand your worry for your brother. I… am worried for him as well, but… you cannot afford to be selfish right…”

“Selfish!?” Dean had to be careful to keep himself from getting too loud; Sam had been sleeping when he’d come downstairs. Peaceful like he almost never was anymore. “Fuck you, Cas,” Dean growled lowly, pushing Cas’ hand away. “I told Sam I wasn’t leaving him, and I intend to keep that promise. How the hell is that selfish?”

Dean had only come down to grab them some food; he hadn’t intended to be gone for long, but then Bobby had started grilling him, and then Cas… Dean looked anxiously towards his brother’s room. He needed to get back upstairs.

“There is no time to be arguing about this. I believe I know where Crowley is currently, but it’s warded against me. If we lose this chance, I will have to start searching for him all over again.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Bobby cut him off. “Look, Sam and I are out of the fight. Sam’s in worse shape than I am. For whatever reason, he’s not talking about what happened to him, and that isn’t likely to change in the next few days…”

“No.”

“Dean…”

“No!” Dean gritted out furiously. “I’m not leaving him and that’s fucking final!”

“Damn it, Dean, I feel as bad for him as you do, but, by his own words, he brought this on himself…”

“He’s lying,” Dean snapped.

“Probably!” Bobby replied with slow sarcasm. “Still doesn’t change that fact that half of the players in this house are useless in this fight, and there’s precious little you can do to help him unless he decides to come clean!”

It was Dean’s fault Bobby was so mistrustful of Sam right now. He hadn’t realized what he’d been doing when he was fanning the flames of the countless rumors circulating about his brother and blood. They’d been wrong. He knew it with soul-deep certainty.

“I have not given up on finding answers for you, Dean,” Cas injected quietly into the silence. “I… have some ideas that require further investigation, but we need to locate Crowley…”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted, noises from upstairs suddenly filtering through his conscious enough to realize his brother was probably awake and moving around. “Shit, I’ll be back,” he muttered, turning to head up the stairs, then swore again as Sam dramatically made his entrance by falling the rest of the way down.

~o0O0o~

It was muffled, but Sam could hear angry yelling coming from downstairs. Dean and Bobby were clearly making an effort to keep it quiet though; it wasn’t quite loud enough for him to make out the words.

He was less confident out in the hall. Dean had been hovering since Sam lost his eyesight, and he had really been far too sore to be capable of pushing Dean’s help away. This was the first time he’d actually attempted to move without his brother by his side, and it was more disorienting than he thought maybe it should be. It wasn’t like Dad hadn’t made them train with blindfolds. He wasn’t sure why this was worse, but it was. He moved forward anyway, one hand running along the wall, wet foot doubtless leaving a bloody trail behind him.

It took him longer to get to the staircase than he thought it should, but he couldn’t say he had ever timed how long it took to walk down the long hall, so maybe that was all in his head too.

So far, so good.

Someone was watching him – the eyes were boring into him from behind, and he started anxiously stumbling down the stairs. His foot caught on something, a book probably, that had been left there. His leg kicked out and he missed the next step, landing heavily on his ass before sliding the rest of the way down to the first floor. Pain ricocheted from his ass through his back and down again, making him twist in on himself protectively, drawing his hands over his head and jerking his knees up in a fetal position. As if that was going to save him from anything.

Strong hands on his skin sent him lashing out, swinging wildly in a pathetic attempt to push them away, to hurt or maim, to somehow give back a little of the pain for once, instead of always being the one to take it. He was vaguely aware that he was yelling, a loud, formless protest for everyone, everything, to just get the fuck away from him. _No more… no more…_

“Sam!”

The hands were on his shoulders, clutching at him, shaking him despite his frantic efforts to get away.

“Sammy!”

He got his hand and shoulder free enough to finally take a swing and connected with flesh, sending a thrill of victory through his tired brain. The hands disappeared. _Thank god…_

“Sam, fuck!”

His brother’s voice... Dean’s voice… sounding pained, sounding hurt.

The fight drained out of him instantly, leaving him in a wretched heap on the floor.

“Dean?” he breathed out unsteadily. His throat was even more thrashed that it was before, and his face was wet. He gasped out a harsh sob as Dean’s arms curled around him, pulling him in close, and he buried his face against the warm flannel. “Please, man, you gotta figure out a way to fix my eyes. I can’t… I can’t live like this… please…”

Dean didn’t reply, simply held him tightly and rocked slightly, soothingly, like Sam was a helpless child. It wasn’t that far from the truth anymore, really.

“Dean, we must leave now, or we will be too late.” Cas’ husky voice took Sam by surprise. He hadn’t known that the angel was here. Cas, seeing him like this, sullied and dirty, his soul so tarnished with filth Sam knew the angel was blinded by it, broke Sam just a little bit more. He jerked away from Dean’s hold, desperate to get away, to move back up the stairs; he couldn’t bear to be in the angel’s presence. Castiel had probably known last year what would happen to Sam, _abomination_ , probably thought Sam deserved this fate and worse. Shame twisted in his stomach, threatened to claw its way out of his throat as he succeeded in pulling away from his brother, leaving himself exposed and vulnerable.

“Damnit, Cas, not now,” Dean muttered, catching Sam by the shoulders to halt his progress up the stairs. “Sam, stop. Just wait, please.”

Sam stopped struggling and gave a silent nod, compelled by Dean’s apparent need, and slowly, painfully, he flipped himself over to sit on the stairs. He could feel Castiel staring at him. He didn’t want Dean to leave. “How long are you going to be gone for?” he forced out, keeping his face pointedly towards where he thought Dean was.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean snapped at the same time as Castiel gravely said, “A few days.”

Dean swore under his breath. Pulling away from Sam to stand up angrily, he left Sam sitting on the ground, useless. “We’ve been over this. I’m not going,” Dean growled.

“Dean,” Bobby’s gruff voice cut in, and Sam hadn’t even realized he was there. “I can’t go. I’ll stay here to keep an eye on your brother. If you don’t stop the apocalypse, ain’t nobody gonna be around to take care of anyone.”

“Bobby,” Dean began angrily.

Dean didn’t want to leave him. Not now that Sam was crippled. Sam let out a quiet laugh. It was bitter comfort, but Sam would take what he could get. He needed Dean too much to let him go, except… he didn’t get to be selfish when everything was his fault. He forced himself to cut in, “You need to go, Dean. Don’t worry about me.”

“Sam, I’m…”

“No!” Sam interrupted loudly, pleadingly. “You can’t step out of the fight, Dean. I fucked everything up and now I’m not even gonna be able to fix it. I need you to fix this for me. Please.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence that left Sam feeling anxious and uncertain. He was used to being able to pick up a lot from body language. Yet another strength that was gone.

There was a thud against the wall, the unmistakable sound of fist against wood, that made Sam jump, and Bobby started to yell, “Dean –”

Shouting louder, Dean cut the old man off, growling, “Fine. Sooner we leave, the sooner I can be back. Let’s go.”

There was a brief rustling noise, and then silence.

Just like that, Dean was gone.

Hopeless dread crawled up Sam’s spine. Lucifer hadn’t returned since he lost his sight, but Lucifer had never come when Dean was close.

“Sam, you bleedin’?” Bobby asked uncertainly.

“I…” He’d forgotten about the glass, and Bobby couldn’t get up the stairs. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t getting out of bed again until Dean was back anyway. He could probably find a towel upstairs, put it over the glass until someone came back who could clean up the mess. “It’s nothing, Bobby. Can you get me a bottle of water? I think that’d be better than glass.”

Bobby grunted, but a few minutes later Sam felt a bottle nudging at his hand. He took it without comment, and turned around to head back upstairs.

“Sam… I… you let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He’d tried when they’d first gotten here, but Sam hadn’t been able to say anything but lies to Bobby either, so he just nodded wearily and crawled back upstairs to hide.


	9. Part Eight

**Part Eight**

Awareness comes back in a rush and he immediately tenses up, expecting the worst, just like he has every time he’s woken since he lost his sight. He’s got no clues without his sight to tell if he’s dreaming or still at Bobby’s. A slight rustle of movement behind him pulls a quiet whimper of terror from him. “Dean?” he whispers, praying he’s wrong for once.

There’s no reply. A hand trails lightly over his arm, making him jump and flinch, but he’s too frozen in fear to actually move away. He has a moment to wish for something more than the light t-shirt he’d worn to bed before whoever it is stops touching him and gets up.

Sam rolls on to his back and strains to see anything through his ruined eyes, but there’s nothing, not even a shadow of movement. He tries again, “Nick?” Tries to pretend the fear edging his voice isn’t there.

There’s quiet movement around the room, but still no response. Time moves slowly, his heavy and accelerating heartbeat marking the moments as he waits for something to happen.

He’s shaking by the time Lucifer moves back to the bed, anticipation adding to the terror of his blindness. He doesn’t know what’s coming. It’s Lucifer, certainly, but the face that the devil wears seems to dictate a lot of Sam’s treatment here, and he can’t see to know which it is.

The silence stretches on, not even a ticking clock to mark it. A burst of anger suddenly makes Sam shiver and he snaps, “Fine, wake me up when you decide to do something.” He turns away, as if he has a hope in hell of falling asleep.

Fingers card lightly through his hair, and he can feel the tension radiating through his shoulders as he lies there, waiting.

Finally, Nick calmly responds, “Poor, pathetic human. You actually still believe you have choices, don’t you?”

“I guess so, since I’m not saying yes to you,” Sam huffs back, sounding like a child.

Lucifer chuckles softly. “Not even to get your sight back?”

Sam can’t deny the longing ache that fills him at the possibility of seeing again, but he pushes the feelings away. “It wouldn’t do me any good to get my sight back if I said yes to you.”

“But you want it,” Nick murmurs, leaning in to lick over the shell of Sam’s ear. “I can feel your need. It’s delicious.”

“Fuck you.”

“In a bit. What would you give me if I gave you your sight back?”

“Nothing,” Sam bites out, his teeth clenched. Lucifer’s playing with him; Sam knows the angel doesn’t mean it.

“I want silence,” Lucifer says, his tone musing.

“What?”

“You agree to stop talking, I return your sight. I know Castiel tried and failed. I know you know I’m the only one that can fix you. So, if you want to see again, agree to silence. It’s a fair trade.”

It’s on the tip of Sam’s tongue to agree to it, consequences be damned, when Lucifer whispers across his ear, “Say yes.”

“No,” the word morphs in his mouth on the way out.

A hand wraps around his balls and twists harshly, making Sam convulse in on himself from the pain with a sharp cry. Lucifer’s grip doesn’t loosen. “No,” he repeats, louder this time.

Lucifer twists again, and the pain is dizzying. Sam clutches at Lucifer’s hand and wrist, trying in vain to pull free, but Lucifer seems oblivious to his attempts. “Say. Yes,” Lucifer growls.

He can feel the skin splitting, it feels like Lucifer is trying to pull his balls off his body, and the panic that clutches at him is followed closely by tears. He can’t take anymore. “Please, stop,” he begs.

“What, don’t want big brother to have a eunuch for a sibling?”

“Stop!”

“Say yes.”

“No!” Sam sobs into the sheets, “Please, just stop, just stop…”

Lucifer’s grip suddenly disappears, and Sam curls around himself, shaking too hard to do more than that. He barely notices when Lucifer grabs his hair and drags him off the bed, hauls him across the room. Before Sam can fully process what’s happening, he’s shoved into a small barred space, and a door is slammed shut with a clang of metal on metal. It sounds and feels like a small cage, with bars that surround him on all sides, even the floor.

“I’ll let you think about your decision for a while. When I come back, I’ll expect you to say yes.”

Sam pushes at the cage door with his bare feet, but the bars are thick and strong. There isn’t any room to maneuver; he was huddled in on himself when Lucifer shoved him in, and now that he’s frantic to move, there’s no room to unfold himself. He does his best to feel around his prison for a lock to pick, unable to let himself just give up, even now. His aching body protests loudly with every movement, but the bars feel completely smooth, as if there are no moving parts at all, not even a door. Finally, exhausted, he huddles into a fetal position and tries to ignore the cold, hard bars under him that press painfully into his skin. He prays for sleep to come soon.

~o0O0o~

He lies there, shivering for hours. Sleep is an impossible dream despite all his longing. The pains he started with are now all consuming, sharply magnified by his inability to stretch out. He ran out of things to distract himself with long ago, and now he can’t help but dwell on his misery. There’s a faint ticking clock somewhere behind him. He doesn’t remember seeing it when he was free, when he could see, doesn’t remember hearing it until after he’d been firmly encased inside the bars for what had then felt like a long time, but it pounds out seconds unrelentingly now, never letting him forget the slow passage of time.

He slams a palm hard against the bars, unable to contain his frustration. It’s not the first time he’s done it. The movement is beyond his control, so desperate is he to break up the never ending monotony. He’s no longer sure that it’s better that Lucifer has left him alone, half hopes that the devil is coming back soon just to add some texture to his existence. He doesn’t believe Lucifer will let him die; he doesn’t know if he can hold on to his sanity if he’s left here indefinitely, left here alone.

“Dean…” he whispers. He needs his brother. That broken connection is agonizing beyond any of the tortures Lucifer has visited on him. If he’d known last year what his actions would lead to, how much the loss of Dean’s unwavering faith in him would hurt, he doesn’t think he would have been strong enough to do what he did, apocalypse be damned.

He doesn’t know how Dean survived 30 years of this. His brother is stronger than Sam can comprehend. It’s probably just as well that Sam is stuck here – Dean will probably be able to accomplish much more now that his worthless brother is out of the picture.

Except… he’s pretty sure Dean was coming back this time. The thought that Dean is holding vigil over Sam instead of doing what needs to be done is nauseating. It’s more than likely all part of Lucifer’s plan, and Sam played right into it, trying to convince Dean to stay. Sam should have run when this all started, shouldn't have clung to the one person he didn't deserve.

He slams his hand against the bars again. Useless. Even if he was free of the bars, without his sight there’s nothing he can do to make himself useful.

“Please…” the word slips out, barely there. His throat is so dry even whispering feels like swallowing broken glass. It’s probably been more like days than hours since he was left here. “Please… let me go…”

A cool hand caresses over his ass, making him jerk so hard he slams his head against his metal surrounds. It’s both a relief and a source of dread and terror that cramps his stomach and burns his eyes.

“Who… who’s there?” he chokes out.

There’s no answer, but the hand doesn’t retreat, just keeps up it’s back and forth journey against Sam’s exposed, vulnerable skin. Helplessly, he tries to pull away, but only succeeds in pressing himself harder against the bars. “Stop… please stop…”

One of the fingers suddenly plunges into Sam’s ass, ragged nails catching on his still healing flesh, tearing as it relentlessly pushes deeper. Sam screams with his barely there voice, and it sounds as pathetic as he feels. He shoves a hand in his mouth, trying to muffle the hurt noises he’s making. It’s only effective because he has so little left. The finger bottoms out and a second is added, pushing in faster this time, and stilling once they’re both all the way in. The seconds continue to click by, the hand unmoving, casually possessive, as if it has all the right in the world to burrow into Sam’s most intimate places and take up residence.

He can’t help it, despite the pain, he tries to push them out, his ass cramping around the unmoving intrusion, adding to the tearing of his insides even though it accomplishes little else. Eventually he stills, a part of himself giving up, unable to fight anymore. Wet warmth trickles across the bridge of his nose, down the side of his face and into his hair.

A minute passes, then two, then five, all with the hand still inside of him, all of his awareness centered on the intrusive touch. When the hand suddenly withdraws, it rips a fresh sob from Sam’s throat, leaves his ass twitching and clenching around the sudden emptiness. 

The bars disappear, and Sam drops an inch to the floor, disoriented for a moment. It takes a moment longer for his brain to reengage, and when it does, he finds he’s somehow made it up to his hands and knees and is slowly trying to crawl away, despite his cramping, stiff muscles that have to fight to support him.

Lucifer’s hand tangles in his hair before he gets far, and he’s yanked up to standing with a sharp jerk. His body ignites with pain, his joints screaming protest at being forced to stretch out after being so long restrained. Their bodies are pressed together in a long line, and Lucifer’s mouth suddenly covers his in a wet, invasive kiss, before shoving him away. He stumbles, landing heavy and sprawling on the bed.

“Say yes,” Lucifer demands coldly, finally breaking the silence.

“No.” Sam’s response is automatic, one he doesn’t even have to think about anymore, and that’s probably a good thing. He can’t say yes. No matter what Lucifer does to him, _he can’t say yes_.

“Do you want your sight back? I can give it to you, you know.”

Sam can’t help the flutter of hope that sparks in his chest. “Yes,” he whispers immediately, despite the promise he made to himself just moments ago.  “Please…”

“Nothing comes without a price. What would you give to get your sight back?” Lucifer crawls onto the bed and drapes his naked body over Sam’s. Harsh fingers grasp Sam’s face tightly when he tries to turn away.

“Nothing,” Sam replies despairingly. The long hours in the cage hadn't changed that.

Lucifer chuckles lowly. “The offer still stands, Sammy. All you need to do is agree to stop speaking, and I’ll restore your sight back. I’ll even show you I can be merciful. You may answer yes or no if directly questioned. But otherwise, no talking. It’s a good trade. Say yes, Sam.”

Sam had been trying for since he got here to figure out what Lucifer is trying to gain from this bizarre offer, but he hasn’t been able to come up with a damn thing. He doesn’t know what Lucifer is trying to accomplish, but he does know it can’t be good. “No.”

Lucifer’s fist slams into the side of his face, snapping it to the side and leaving him dizzy. He’s done dizzy before, but without his sight it’s somehow far more disconcerting. He’s barely aware of Lucifer tying his wrists to the bed, certainly doesn’t have it within himself to fight back.

Something is tied around his lower right thigh, right above his knee. It tightens, and then tightens some more making Sam cry out and try to pull his leg away. Lucifer chuckles and lets him go, but then quickly grabs his other leg and does the same thing. Sam rubs his legs against the bed, trying desperately to get the bindings off, but it has little effect. “Please, that’s… it’s too tight – you’re cutting off the circulation in my legs.”

“You want these off, child? You know what you need to do…” Lucifer sighs.

Sam presses his lips together angrily, steeling himself against the pain.

“As you wish.” There’s a soft click, and then Lucifer shoves Sam’s knees apart and a second click sounds. Lucifer lets him go.

Sam’s knees are spread wide, leaving his dick and balls disturbingly exposed. He immediately tries to close his legs, but there’s something between them now, holding them open. A third click that echoes loudly through the room leaves the bar, or whatever it is, locked in place. Whatever his legs are strapped to, it’s not moving anymore. His feet are free, but he’s pinned to the bed face up, so that small freedom does him little good. A cool finger traces the exposed skin in the crease where his thigh meets his crotch, and there’s nothing Sam can do to prevent it. “Please, stop,” he pleads softly. “Please, stop.”

“There’s only one word I want to hear, Sam," Lucifer replies coldly.

His balls are grabbed next, and suddenly something is clamping around them. Panic climbs out of his pores, and a stream of desperate pleading falls loudly, frantically from his lips. His distressed cries have no effect; the sharp pinching around his scrotum intensifies as his flesh is stretched down between his legs. The pain is unrelenting, and shifting his hips just makes it worse.

“Shhh…” Lucifer croons, sliding up along Sam’s body, pressing a series of small kisses against his skin. “Relax, Sam,” he breathes into Sam’s ear. “The testicle cuff is connected to the spreader bar. If you struggle too much, you could seriously damage yourself. I don’t think you want that.”

Sam freezes, terror holding him in place far more effectively than the bondage gear Lucifer is strapping him into.

Lucifer continues his gentle strokes over Sam’s chest. The caresses are soothing, and Sam struggles to choke his fear back. He bites his lower lip to keep from making any noise and focuses on the teasing strokes smoothing over his chest, his nipples, his stomach. The hand strays lower, glossing over his dick, and he can feel his soft flesh jerk up at the attention. Of course, this causes his hips move a little as well, and it pulls simultaneously on his sack, which… hurts, but, somehow his dick likes the small tugs, little jolts of pleasure tingling up his length even as the pain intensifies, and he’s hardening like an eager slut.

“You like that, don’t you?” Lucifer says forlornly. “You were born to belong to me, Sam. Stop fighting.”

Sam shakes his head, but he can’t force out a response. Instead, he carefully pushes against Lucifer’s teasing touch, using his body to plead for more. Lucifer chuckles mockingly, and takes Sam firmly in hand. His dick is wet and slick with pre-come, and Lucifer uses the moisture to slide against Sam firmly, quickly bringing Sam to full hardness, almost to the edge of release. Another snap of metal fitting together, and something is clamped around the base of his dick. It’s painfully tight and he bucks helplessly against it. “What is that? Take it off, please,” he begs, not expecting to be listened to, unable to hold the words in.

He’s played right into Lucifer’s hands, and shame pounds across his temples in painful spikes.

His dick is throbbing, but it doesn’t really feel good anymore. This time, when Lucifer traces a finger over the stretched skin of his scrotum, it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. He jerks against the pain, which makes the flare of fire intensify, and Lucifer’s hands are immediately pressing down on his hips, keeping him still.

“Shhh…” Lucifer soothes, “You are becoming quite inflamed down there. If you don’t stop struggling, you will rupture yourself.”

“Fuck,” Sam groans, his frantic breaths hitching on the drawn out vowel. “Fuck you…”

“Now,” Lucifer growls, “this next part is going to hurt. You’ll need to keep yourself still while I make you bleed, or you’re likely to increase your pain unnecessarily.”

Lucifer’s hand circles around Sam’s dick, and suddenly he’s never felt so vulnerable. He presses his knees against the spreader bar, desperate for the bit of protection closing his legs might afford him, but the bar only presses painfully against his thighs, no doubt leaving behind identical bruises under the cuffs that encircle them.

Something sharp trails from the base of his dick to the tip. “Stop!” he croaks out hopelessly, struggling to stay still.

Whatever it is finds his slit and starts pushing inside. He’s never felt anything like it, and it burns like a mother-fucker as it pushes in deeper and deeper. A stream of “please, no, stop,” starts bubbling out of him, interspersed with cries for Dean that are never answered. Finally, finally, he feels Lucifer’s thumb brush over the top of his penis, pushing the rod flush to the tip. Despite the continuing burn, despite the uncomfortable fullness that’s making his dick throb angrily, and the clamp around the base that’s forcing him to stay hard, at least Lucifer’s done and he sobs his relief.

He shouldn’t have been so optimistic. Something decidedly sharper than before pricks the side of his dick, pushes into the skin, and he screams, unable to keep the cry inside. It pushes into his skin, piercing through his penis until it hits the rod inside, the scrape of metal against metal like nails on a chalkboard, twisting through his groin. His stomach clenches and heaves from the pain, and he’d throw up if his body had anything in it to purge. Instead, he can only gag helplessly as he fights to breathe around his small convulsions. Lucifer pays no attention to his distress, and his breaths come out in harsh gasps as Lucifer scrapes the two pieces of metal together, spinning the rod around until the sharp instrument threads through. , and forces its way out the other side.

“Take it out, please, please, take it out,” he sobs, writhing helplessly against his restraints.

“Now, why would I want to do that?” Lucifer practically purrs, “It’s quite fetching on you.” The part Lucifer skewered through the side of his dick apparently sticks out on either side. Lucifer hooks his fingers around the protruding metal and yanks roughly, which pulls yet another yell of agony from Sam’s throat. He still can’t seem to get enough air, and his lungs are burning almost as much as his dick is now. “I’d love to show it to you,” Lucifer murmurs against Sam’s temple, placing a kiss against the wet skin. “The deal still stands, child. Agree to stop speaking, except for yes or no, and I’ll give you your sight back. Say yes, Sammy.”

“No,” Sam sobs out despite every cell, every atom in his body screeching at him that he needs to say yes, needs to do whatever it takes to end this. Lucifer’s mutilated him further, it’s worse than the hand print. He’s desperate to see the damage.

Lucifer’s tongue licks over the head of his dick, worrying over the metal that juts from the tip. Sam shrinks back against the sparks of agony that fountain through him like fireworks. He’d be losing his erection; he knows he would, but the thing wrapped around him is keeping him hard, making him strain for release.

Ignoring Sam’s whimpered protests, Lucifer licks his way down to the base of Sam’s dick with a sloppy wet tongue, and Sam can feel liquid dripping down his crack and pooling on his lower abdomen. Disgust adds to the bile that coats his tongue. His protests strangle in his throat as Lucifer shifts up and swallows him down, and all he can do is helplessly buck forward into Lucifer’s willing mouth. Despite all the pain, he can’t seem to keep his body from wanting this.

Lucifer pulls off of him, and once more he demands, “Say yes.”

Sam can’t talk, can’t force out any sound, but he shakes his head in denial, back and forth over and over again, as if, if he does it long enough, Lucifer will somehow see him and believe.

The metal tugs against – inside – of Sam’s dick as Lucifer crawls up his body like a spider until he’s resting his chest against Sam’s, and then his mouth seals over Sam’s, tongue forcing it’s way inside hungrily. The taste of copper explodes over Sam’s tongue. Sam’s blood, it’s everywhere, coating Lucifer’s lips and filling his mouth, and sudden realization washes over Sam, chilling him – the liquid pooling over his groin isn’t spit, it’s his own blood. He’s drowning in it.

Once more, “Say. Yes.” The words are cold, clipped. Lucifer’s façade of patience bleeding away.

“Fuck you!” Sam screams.

Lucifer goes still against him, and Sam can feel the anger radiating through Nick’s body. Sam matches Lucifer’s stillness. This is it. Lucifer’s done playing with him. He has a moment to register welling panic as something sharp tickles against his ear, probing, a split second before plunging in deeply. His ear drum gives way under the sharp intrusion, and Sam’s head explodes in agony. Lucifer leaves him to writhe helplessly against his tied wrists and leg restraints, the need to pull the object from his ear overriding any rational thought. He convulses in the grip of his bonds, scraping his head against the bed only to drive the stick, or whatever the implement is, even deeper into his ear canal. He loses track of time for a while, unable to process anything but pain.

It takes a long time for him to come back to himself, the agony draining slowly, so slowly, away, a long time until it recedes enough for him to be aware of anything beyond his harsh sobs. There’s a stillness in the room as his painful cries finally die away, leaving him with an aching numbness.

When Lucifer finally whispers into his undamaged ear, he doesn’t even have it in himself to flinch away. “The deal still stands. Your sight for your voice,” Lucifer growls, “Say yes, or I’ll take your hearing as well as your sight, and you can find out what it’s like to be Helen Keller.”

Cold, start terror washes over him. He can’t. _He can’t._

“Yes.” It’s out before he can call it back.

Lucifer chuckles, low and evil. “Good boy,” he purrs, patting his hand against Sam’s cheek. “And to show you my appreciation, I’ll even leave you with a little gift that will help you keep your promise.”

Lucifer presses his hand against Sam’s right hip, and fire flares against his skin, burning into him, marking him. His screams threaten to tear his throat apart.

~o0O0o~

Sam came awake all at once, sitting up with a harsh gasp. The room swam into rough focus when he opened his eyes, still blurry, but, he could _see_. The rush of relief hit hard, too hard to keep his emotions contained. He let out a relieved gasp, felt moisture leak from his open eyes but he was too overwhelmed, too enthralled by the sight of the simple room to care.

A sharp pulse of pain stabbed through his dick, apparently a warning call to a throbbing wash of agony that started pounding through his center. He tore the blankets off, pushed his pants and boxers down frantically and clutched at himself, anxiety churning in his stomach over the thought of Lucifer damaging him permanently. It was a gory sight, and his breathing stopped, his brain scrambling to process what he was seeing. He was covered in blood. It was soaking through the sheets and drying on his skin, and he had to wipe it away with shaking hands before he could really see what the damage was. His dick was red and inflamed, and touching it added fresh agony to his catalogue of hurts, but, he couldn’t not touch; he needed to know.

There was… there was a hole on the side of his dick that wouldn’t quite come into focus. He probed at it, trying ineffectively to blink away the blur. It seemed to be partially, but not completely, healed, because manipulating it caused red blood to well up in it. There was a matching hole on the other side.

Lucifer had pierced him, but whatever he used to do it was no longer there. Sam didn’t know if that meant it would close up, or if he’d be permanently mutilated. Jess’ face flashed through his mind, and shame twisted through his abdomen. The thought of _anyone_ seeing him like this, especially Dean or Jess, left him sick.

He let himself go in disgust and turned his attention to the ugly welts on his hip. Large, angry lines that were easy to make out despite his blurred vision, formed what looked like an Enochian symbol, though it wasn’t one he’d ever seen before. It looked like Lucifer had taken a hot brand and pressed it into his skin, like he was nothing more than cattle. It was cleaner, more purposeful, than the hand print on his chest, and it felt like a claim all the more for it. 

He needed a drink, preferably something with alcohol, even though that was probably a really bad idea, considering his level of dehydration. He pulled his damp, blood-stained pants back up his hips to hide the worst of the damage from view, so that he could pretend, at least for a few more minutes, that nothing was wrong. It wasn’t likely the pain would let him forget, of course, but he was determined to try anyway.

He climbed out of the dirty bed and his legs almost gave out on him. Jagged pieces of broken glass still littered the carpet under the towels he’d thrown down, and he was going to have to move carefully to avoid them. He was weak and clumsy; maneuvering down the stairs seemed like way too much work. It was tempting to just crawl back into bed.

“Sam!” Bobby’s voice startled him and when he jerked back he went down, landing heavily against the side of the bed. “Sam, you awake? I can’t come up there and get you, but it’s been over 24 hours, and you need to eat something! I’m getting damn tired of yelling my fool head off for you down here!”

“Y… yes,” Sam croaked out – his voice was no better here than it was in the dream.

“’Bout damn time!” Bobby grumbled loudly.

His pants were stained just as badly as the sheets, which was going to make it pretty impossible to hide his new injuries from Bobby, but if he couldn’t figure out a way, there was no way he was going down. Lucifer wasn’t going to let him die of dehydration – it wasn’t worth the embarrassment, and Bobby’s attempts to fix him, just to get some fucking water. Looking around, he spied his duffle in the corner and stiffly moved over to it. It was sort of surreal, looking through the bag to find something to wear. His clothes had been the least of his worries for a while now. Everything was clean. That… couldn’t be right – he certainly hadn’t washed anything for a while. Someone must’ve washed them for him – _Dean_ – Bobby wouldn’t have thought to do it. The suspicion warmed him a little.

He pulled out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, found an old ace bandage tucked away in a corner and pulled that out too. He was still bleeding a little, but it wasn’t bad, at least, not bad enough to leak through in the time he was planning on being downstairs. He wrapped himself gingerly and pulled on the clean sweats… and guffawed short and loud. He looked like he’d stuffed himself to look bigger, like some gangly prepubescent kid. Fortunately, the t-shirt was old and stretched out, so it was big enough to cover everything up as long as he didn’t tuck it in or stretch up, and it wasn’t like his body was gonna let him do the latter – he could barely straighten out from his hunched over position to walk normally.

He hobbled slowly downstairs, and Bobby was waiting with a scowl on his face that somehow communicated affection at the same time.

“What took you so long?”

There was a… buzz, in his head, a disquieting disconnect that made him look away, unable to meet Bobby’s eyes. He couldn’t even open his mouth to attempt to answer.

“I… Sam?” Bobby breathed out cautiously, “Can you see?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, still looking away. Things were still blurry. He wondered if that would get better with time. _Where was Dean?_ He willed Bobby to answer his silent question, but Bobby was leaning in, peering at him closely, trying to see Sam’s eyes. It looked like Dean’s whereabouts were the last thing on Bobby’s mind.

He lurched forward, suddenly needing to get away. He didn’t want Bobby looking at him. He didn’t want anybody looking at him. He stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water and gulping it down before filling it again. It tasted like heaven.

“Sit down,” Bobby commanded. “I made some soup.” He dropped a couple of mugs in his lap and grabbed a pot from the stove, somehow managing to wheel around to the table one handed and plunk the soup down. “Here. Eat,” he ordered, gesturing Sam closer with one of the mugs. 

Sam reluctantly walked over to a kitchen chair and lowered himself down. The hard wood hurt as much as he thought it would, and he barely managed to hold in the pained grunt that wanted to escape. Bobby dipped a mug into the pot and slid the messy thing towards Sam. It was beef and large, chunky vegetables in a thick brown broth, and it smelled incredible. Sam was really not sure how long it had been since he’d eaten, but his stomach was screaming at him that it had been a _long, fucking, time_.

Bobby let him eat in silence for a few minutes, awkwardly fidgeting with a napkin while Sam practically inhaled the soup, only really pausing when it was time to refill his cup. 

He was on his third when Bobby finally asked, “So, why don’t you tell me everything you know about what’s been happening over the last few weeks so I can get to researching a little more effectively.”

Sam picked the mug up and blew on the soup before taking another large swallow, hoping Bobby would just let it go. No such luck.

“Sam? You gotta give me something, Son. I’m not gonna be of much use to you if you don’t.”

Frustrated, Sam’s gaze fell on an old abandoned pencil pointing out from a messy stack of mail that had been abandoned on the table. He grabbed it and pressed it against his napkin, figured he’d start with something simple – his name. He tried to move his hand, gave up on his name and just tried for a capital S. His hand was shaking with the effort he was taking to move it but nothing else happened. He gave up and decided just to scribble, and the pencil suddenly jerked down, long jagged meaningless lines that gouged holes in the napkin. The pencil broke and he threw it angrily across the room. “No.”

“Sam…”

“No!” Sam yelled, and the mug he’d been holding followed the fucking pencil, shattering satisfyingly against the wall. He hadn’t… he hadn’t really thought it through, when Lucifer gave him the deal. He could read now, sure, but he couldn’t really communicate, so he was still no better than useless to anyone.

He wanted to cuss out the universe, but even that was taken from him. A harsh laugh ripped from his throat. He was falling apart, was going to lose his shit for real this time right in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen.

Strong arms pulled his shaking body into an embrace, and Sam couldn’t help but relax into Bobby’s silent offer of comfort.

It wasn’t long before Sam couldn’t hold the awkward pose, and he started to pull back, but Bobby refused to let go. “Dean told me about some of your injuries,” Bobby started awkwardly. “You got nothin’ to be ashamed of. You know we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on. Now I know Dean thinks there’s something preventing you from…”

Bobby was still talking, but all Sam could think about was that Dean… Dean told. He _told_. Sam leapt up out of his chair, determined to get back to the deceptive illusion of safety in his room. Dean shouldn’t have told. Not Bobby. Sam knew Bobby had always favored Dean, which was understandable, but now… now he must think Sam was…

A heavy hand gripped his t-shirt, pulling him back before he could gather his wits enough to move away. “What?” Bobby mumbled, alarmed. Sam arched back, trying to see what had startled the old man. “Are you… is that blood?”

 _Shit_ He’d been so freaked out about his dick he hadn’t even thought about his ass.

“Jesus, Sam. I think we need to get a doctor here.”

“No,” Sam begged.

“No? Sam…”

“No!” Sam shouted, cutting Bobby off.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t and I’ll listen, but you need to tell me what’s going on, now.”

Bobby’s eyes locked on his own, and he fucking wished he could just open his mouth and let all his secrets come pouring out like everyone seemed to want. Nothing came out though, despite what he wanted. What he _wanted_ never seemed to matter. Not to the monsters and angels that wanted to control him, not to his Dad, not to Bobby, not to Dean. He turned away and stumbled back up the stairs, unable to heed Bobby’s commands to stay.

~o0O0o~

Jagged little spikes of pain begin in his dick and radiate out across his body in rhythmic pulses. He moans quietly and reaches a hand down to cup himself, only to be confronted with warmed metal instead of flesh. He’s afraid to look, lets his fingers trace the too tight bindings holding his dick half hard. There’s a wire coming out of his tip, and it’s buried deep inside of him, making him ache in a way his brain can’t quite even process.

He doesn’t know if it might damage him if he pulls it out; he doesn’t really care either, giving the loop of metal a hard yank without stopping to think it through. He needs it gone.

The flair of pain makes him gag, but the wire doesn’t give at all; it’s caught on… something. He trails a finger along the curved loop that juts out of his tip and makes a 180 back towards his body. The metal thickens as he traces towards himself, until it’s thick and heavy as it enters the hole, the piercing, that he’d found when he was awake.

The other side of the thing is flattened out, and curves around him, dipping lower to encircle him like a sheath. As far as he can tell there is no way to get the hated thing out of himself. The bottom of the thing circles him tightly, forming a… a cock ring. He’s heard of those, although he’d always assumed they were more… ring like, more narrow. Not that he’s ever given cock rings a lot of thought. Bondage of any kind has never really appealed to him. This ring is at least an inch long, edge to edge, and it squeezes around him uncomfortably, almost sharp enough to cut into the skin that distends out over the too tight lip.

He wants it gone, is prepared beg Lucifer to take it off, dignity be damned, but all that comes out is a barely whispered, “No…” Lucifer still hasn’t given him his words back.

The bed sags slightly with the weight of someone sitting next to him, and his eyes fly open, praying for Dean, getting Lucifer instead.

“No,” he bites out uselessly again.

There’s no response. Lucifer smiles down at Sam and brushes Sam’s hand away only to replace it with his own firm grip. He gives a couple of tugs, pulling a yelp of pain from Sam, but Sam’s traitorous dick starts filling with the stimulation anyway.

 _Please, stop…_ the words echo in Sam’s head, trapped there with no escape. Despite knowing it will only make things worse, Sam can’t help but try to escape, try to roll away from the intimate touch.

Lucifer punches him, slamming his face hard to the right, and Sam hears what can only be the sharp crack of bone. Pain blossoms across his face, leaving him dizzy and moaning. Casually, Lucifer places his hand on Sam’s forehead, petting him tenderly, his features softening. Sam has to struggle to keep himself from hyperventilating as his breathing speeds up in response.

“I gave you another word besides, ‘No,’ Sam.” Lucifer states softly. Why don’t you use it to end all this. Will you be my vessel? Will you let me end your pain?”

Sam shifts his gaze back to the monster beside him and growls out, “No.”

Lucifer sighs sadly. “Why do you think everything you touch is destroyed, Sam?” Lucifer asks somberly, apologetically.

 _Fuck you_ , Sam thinks fiercely, but the only thing that comes out is a whimper. He turns his head away. He doesn’t want to hear this.

Lucifer stretches out along side Sam, meshing their bodies together. He doesn’t stop the soft stroking over Sam’s hair. Sam longs to arch into the gentle touch. He bites his lip and keeps his face turned away.

“Your mother gave everything good to your brother. By the time you came along, she had nothing left. It’s why you’re my perfect vessel. It’s inherent to your very being. That’s why nothing you do ever works, that’s why everything that you do destroys instead of heals.” Lucifer leans in, presses his lips against Sam’s in a gentle kiss that makes Sam whimper.

“No…” Sam whispers.

“I’m sorry, Samuel, but you know it’s true. Your father knew it too – that’s why he was planning to kill you, why he told Dean to do it when he couldn’t. He knew there was no saving you. Did you know, the first time he thought about killing you, you were only 12 years old? All that time, he knew, but he couldn’t even trust you enough to warn you.”

“No,” Sam whispers weakly. _You’re lying_. “No,” he denies again, his voice breaking.

Lucifer’s hand tickles down Sam’s chest, reaches down to fondle Sam’s balls in a parody of tenderness.

“You’re mine, Sam.”

“No,” Sam protests.

“Yes,” Lucifer counters immediately. “That’s why Dean turned his back on you. He doesn’t know you’re evil, but his soul can feel your corruption. You are abhorrent to him at the most basic levels. That’s why all the women you care about die.” Lucifer leans in again, so that his lips are almost close enough to tickle Sam’s as he speaks. “And when they do, when they die? Your taint leaves with them. They aren’t welcome in Heaven, Samuel. They aren’t welcome because of you.”

 _No…_ That… that can’t be true. Not Jess, especially not Jess – she never did anything to hurt anybody. “No…” Sam whispers the word wetly, but all he can see is Jess splayed on his ceiling, burning in hell-fire.

Sam can’t do anything as Lucifer crawls on top of him, pulling Sam’s legs up before forcing Nick’s dick inside with a single, sharp thrust. Sam screams, the intense pain of penetration somehow magnified by the torture device still encasing his cock, but at least the pain drives the vision of _Jess burning above him_ from his head. Tears run freely down his face as Lucifer thrusts inside of him. His dick continues to swell, continues until it’s hard to bursting, and it fucking hurts, but despite the pain and humiliation, somehow he still wants to come, _needs_ to come. He can’t, though. The ring is holding him just at the edge.

Lucifer hadn’t even tied him down this time. Sam just spread himself open unquestioningly like the slut he’s become. He wants to yell obscenities, wants to plead with Lucifer to just leave him alone, but he can’t do any of that, and as the pounding into his ass goes on an on, seemingly never ending, until it feels like he’s been suspended in this feeling forever, something breaks. Sam stops struggling, stops fighting against the inevitable, even in his mind. He relaxes back against the bed as much as he can and lets the tears fall unheeded.

The tears don’t stop, even when Lucifer shudders and comes, a long, satisfied, loudly obscene moan dripping from his lips. “That’s right,” the devil whispers against Sam’s ear when he finally collapses down, spent. “Stop fighting me, and all this will be easier on you. Agree to that, just that, and I’ll let Dean come out to play. I’ll even give you another word – I’ll let you say his name. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Sam whispers, ashamed but unable to keep the word inside.

“You agree to stop fighting against what I want to do to you? You’ll stop denying me, at least on this point?”

A harsh gasp of grief tears itself from Sam’s throat, and he curls himself into the pillow to muffle himself.

“Sam?” Lucifer’s tone promises pain.

He needs Dean, even if it isn’t real. Even if it isn’t natural, he needs his brother more than he needs air. “Yes,” he whispers. He’s not even sure Lucifer's heard him, but suddenly the brand on his hip flares, burns like someone is pressing a red hot poker into his skin, and he screams in agony, thrashing against the bed even though he knows it will have no effect.

“Shhh… hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” The rich, warm tone of his brother bathes over him as Dean’s hand strokes over Sam’s hair, brushing the sweaty locks from his head, soothing. There. A sob chases Sam’s arms around Dean, pulling him in close to tangle their bodies together tightly.

“Dean…” Sam breathes out, the vague beginnings of contentment shivering in his heart for what feels like the first time in forever.

“Yeah, Sammy. It’s okay, I’m here.” Dean’s words are like honey on a warm day, flowing thickly over his skin to push back the cold that’s encased his heart. When Dean’s lips trail over his skin, licking and nipping gently, Sam can’t help but arch up into it, even though the renewed interest makes his dick throb painfully.

Sam barely chokes back the whimper that tries to escape.

Dean works his way down until his face is hovering over Sam’s crotch, his breath wet and warm against his aching skin. “This looks like it hurts, baby. You want it off?”

Sam closes his eyes against the false hope that flares. It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell his brother that he doesn’t think it does come off, that there’s nothing that can be done, but all that comes out is a soft, “Yes.”

Dean licks along the throbbing, swollen vein on the underside of Sam’s dick, until he hits the piercing, does something with his tongue and Sam hears a faint clicking sound. There’s a sharp pinch and then Dean is miraculously pulling the metal wire free. His relief is short lived as the plunging wire seems to scrape against his insides as it’s pulled free and a scream of agony is pulled from his lips once more. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean mutters under his breath. He sounds sincere. Sam chooses to believe he is.

Dean tosses the wire to the side, and Sam tries hard not to think about how long the thing is. His dick is throbbing from the abuse, and he stifles a whimper as Dean licks over it, trying and failing to be soothing. Sam’s still hard, but there’s so much pain it takes a while before he finally figures out why he can’t seem to either come or will his erection down. The ring is still there.

“Dean?” he questions hesitantly.

“Shhh…” is all Dean responds with. He’s licking over Sam’s dick like it’s candy, and as the pain and indignity fades, Sam finally bucks up into the moist heat, moaning obscenely.

“Dean,” Sam cries out, he wants, _burns_ to come so badly he thinks he might explode, but he doesn’t have the words to beg Dean to finish removing the ring, can only moan wantonly and hope his brother figures it out soon.

Dean pulls back just enough to whisper huskily, “You want me, Sammy?”

“Yes,” he hisses.

“You wanna come down my throat?”

“Dean…” he begs, convulsing up helplessly.

Dean swallows him down, all the way down as the ring suddenly releases, and Sam’s dick throbs once, twice, and then the bliss is rolling over him as he lets go in one of the best orgasms of his life.

“Holy fuck,” Dean chokes out, horrified, only it doesn’t come from the Dean whose lips are still wrapped around him, eagerly swallowing everything Sam just gave. It comes from _Dean_ who’s standing in the doorway of the room, watching them, his face twisted with revulsion…

“Dean?” Sam gasps out. Dean, no, _Lucifer_ , is suddenly gone, leaving Sam alone with… Abruptly, Sam _knows_ that Dean, his Dean, is the one standing there staring at him, was the one standing there watching him come down his brother’s throat with wanton abandon.

The silence stretches between them for an agonizing moment. Sam can’t speak, isn’t sure there’s anything he could say even if he could. There’s no air, his lungs seize, jack-knifing ragged bursts of pain through his vice-locked chest.

“Sam, what…” Dean eyes are red, glistening with unshed tears, and he can’t seem to get the words out, betrayal written across his face more clearly than words could ever convey.

Sam woke up with a gasp and a sob. He sat up, ignoring the pain, looking around desperately for Dean, grasping frantically for the words that might fix this if only he could find a way to get them out.

He was alone.


	10. Part Nine

**Part Nine**

He’d been lying in bed for hours, shaking, unable to force Dean’s horrified face from his mind. Dean thought he… Dean thought… and really… isn’t it true? Sam did want it. Even now that he was awake, he longed for it. God help him, he’d never wanted anything like this with Dean before, but now that he’s… now it was all he could think about – Dean’s warm hands caressing over his skin, soft whispers of love, of acceptance, the two of them so tangled up in each other that Sam wouldn’t ever get lost again. He hungered for it.

 _You’re a monster, Sam. There’s no going back_.

Dean was never going to talk to him again. He kept expecting Bobby to call for him angrily, to banish him from the house and tell him to never come back. All it would take was one phone call from Dean. _Bobby, I know what Sammy is now. I saw what he did…_

Maybe it was the demon blood, maybe drinking it changed him more than he thought, turned him into this… this _thing_ that could lust after his own brother.

_Bloodsucking freak._

Or maybe… maybe Lucifer had been telling the truth – Sam was just… evil, inherently evil. It was in his nature to be this twisted, this fucked up. The only question was why he ever bothered to fight in the first place.

_Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic._

He almost drifted off a few times, but every time he was laughed back awake by jeering faces that taunted him with his worthlessness. The desperate feeling of being completely alone gnawed at him, and he wished he could die. Saying yes to Lucifer was as close as he was ever going to get to death, but… but he wasn’t there yet. _He wasn’t._ As long as he could pretend he had his brother when he was dreaming, maybe he’d be able to hold on indefinitely, except, he was really not sure how much longer his sanity would stick around.

_You were always a monster. And you only feel right when you're sucking down more poison and more evil._

If he was completely insane, would it still count if he said yes? In a court of law he certainly wouldn’t be held accountable for anything he said while he was bat-shit crazy, but he wasn’t sure the same laws applied to angels. And also, of course, that would be assuming there was something fair, something good in the universe… it took awhile, but he thought maybe he’d finally grown out of that childish insistence.

_There’s no saving you…_

“Sam?” The word was soft, unsure, and Sam thought he must’ve imagined it, conjured it out of his despair, until it happened again, “Sam, you awake?”

Sam jerked up, Dean’s voice behind him suddenly registering as real. He scrambled back, launching himself off the side of the bed and moving backwards until he hit the wall. He didn’t know why Dean was here. There was nothing left to say between them. Why would Dean feel the need to make him feel even worse?

He didn’t think that was possible – it wasn’t possible to hate himself more than he already did, but if anyone could still do it, Dean could.

 _Just get the hell out. There’s nothing left to say. Just leave me alone, please._ It was what Sam intended to say, but all that came out was a soft, broken, “No…” He wasn’t going to even be able to beg Dean for forgiveness. He curled in on himself, wrapped his arms around his head, and it hurt – any movement hurt, of course, but with his clenching muscles, sitting with all his weight on his ass, it all just added to the agony. Maybe that was a good thing. He rocked himself forward and back, forward and back, letting the pain white everything out, so that he didn’t have to be present, didn’t have to see the permanent look of disgust that decorated Dean’s face now. There was no going back from this.

“Sammy?” The hand that landed on his shoulder scorched him, judgment and condemnation and betrayal and Sam couldn’t…

He jerked away from it, crawled away until he hit the corner of the room and couldn’t go any further. He twisted himself up as small as possible, praying for what little shelter the walls could give. _Don’t touch me_ , he wanted to say, and _Leave me alone_ , but nothing passed his lips except a steady stream of, “No, no, no…”

Hands grasped at him anyway, hands that pulled him away from safety falsely promised, the safety that was never really his. “Sam, Sammy, stop!” The words were commanding, the voice promised sin… no, that wasn’t right. Desire swelled in him, true enough, but it was nothing he should want, and it wasn’t Dean’s fault that he did.

_We're not even the same species. You're nothing to me._

He screamed helplessly, his struggles fruitless as the arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly.

He kept screaming, kept fighting, but he had so little left to start with, and his body gave out far too soon. There was no escape from the hands that gripped him. There never was. His struggles waned, slipped away into stillness broken only by the small tremors of spent muscles and residual panic.

Eventually, he relaxed into the embrace, even though he knew he shouldn’t. How many times did faith have to burn him before he learned not to reach for it, not to touch it? He didn’t deserve the blessings of a higher power.

_Abomination._

He tried not to let false hope fill him, even as the comforting hands rocked him, and whispers of love and support taunted him with their unattainability. “Shhh…” the words whispered. “I’ve got you, Sammy… It’s okay. I’ve got you...” Everything was blurring around him, and the soft words chased him into sleep.

~o0O0o~

He came awake from his dreamless sleep with a start; the arms wrapped around him were still holding him securely. He was trapped, helpless, and it overshadowed his relief at getting the first undisturbed sleep in longer than he could remember. He lay there silently for a moment before he realized escape might be an option. He thrashed against his captor, letting out a barely audible cry.

“Sam?” Dean’s sleep hazed voice simultaneously soothed and alarmed. Sam froze in confusion, his body rigid with indecision. “Hey, Sam. You’re okay, just relax. Please.”

The barely concealed fear in Dean’s words had an immediate effect. Self-preservation took over, and Sam settled down. He couldn’t face Lucifer coming out to play. Not right now.

“Sam, can you… can you look at me?” Dean’s hesitant request caught Sam by surprise; he hadn’t realized his eyes were closed.

He fluttered them open to find Dean’s face inches from his own. His vision wasn’t any clearer than it was the last time he awoke, and for a moment all he could do was panic that it never would be. It hadn’t occurred to him to try before, but Dean was blurry enough, even this close, that Sam wasn’t sure he’d actually be able to read anything without a magnifying glass. Lucifer promised him sight, but hadn’t said anything about how good it would be. Dean didn’t pull away, just looked at him worriedly, their faces close enough to share breath. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He leaned in and pressed his lips to his brother’s.

Dean jerked back, looking vaguely panicked, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he raised a hand wonderingly and ran a finger over Sam’s cheek. “Damn,” he muttered to himself, almost like Sam wasn’t even there, “Bobby said, but… I don’t think I really believed it. How… What happened?”

Dean was looking at Sam’s eyes like a miracle had occurred. Sam couldn’t really find it in himself to agree, especially since Lucifer was the very one that caused the injury he’d ‘healed’. Sam knew he couldn’t answer Dean’s question, and Dean’s grip had loosened, so Sam rolled over and pressed his face into his pillow.

Dean responded by curling around Sam protectively. The sob Sam heaved into the pillow caught him off-guard, his body shuddering in his brother’s embrace. Dean reacted by holding him tighter. “I don’t know how to help you, Sam. You gotta tell me how to help you.”

The shocked expression Dean had worn when he saw Sam dreaming about using his own brother to get himself off popped into Sam’s head, and he rolled away abruptly, pushing Dean away from him forcefully. Clearly not expecting the move, Dean tumbled over the side of the bed in a clumsy heap.

“Sam? Fuck,” Dean muttered in confusion, untangling himself from the blankets he took with him in his fall.

“Dean, it is time.” Cas was abruptly in the room with them, his tone grave like it usually was.

Sam flung himself backwards off the bed, he couldn’t… his back hit the corner of the room, he couldn’t move any farther away, but if Cas looked at him, he thought he might just fly apart.

“Not now, Cas,” Dean said angrily, his eyes not leaving Sam’s.

“Prolonging this will only cause your brother more suffering. You are being… unreasonable.”

“Fuck you, Cas. You aren’t the one that’s gonna have to…”

Cas was already moving toward Sam as Dean’s voice trailed off. “No!” Sam yelled. Cas didn’t listen though, nobody ever listened. The angel reached out and placed cool fingers against Sam’s forehead. He was out before he had time to scream again.

~o0O0o~

He’s face down in gravel that’s tearing into his skin with every pounding thrust. It’s peaceful; the sound of crickets fills the night and a gentle breeze is cooling against the sweat that covers his naked body. He wonders why he isn’t fighting, why he’s just taking the endless abuse that’s being visited on him in the quiet night, in the middle of nowhere. This is a dream. It has to be a dream. Tim never raped him. _Not like this_.

“Please,” he rasps against the dirt and stones. Still, he doesn’t fight back, doesn’t do anything but beg into the ground that’s wet with his blood. “Please, you don’t really want to do this, Tim. Please, stop...”

The body above him stills, and the crickets grow louder and louder, loud enough that the echo is maddening. The man thrusts forward hard enough to jerk Sam’s body at least a foot across the course ground, driving more gravel into the skin of his abdomen and groin. Sam yells, his body on fire, so much pain he thinks he might not be able to contain it all, and suddenly, the crickets stop, leaving a deafening silence.

Fear curls around Sam like a blanket. “Tim?” he whimpers.

The masculine laugh from above him shatters the quiet, and Sam’s heart stops. It isn’t Tim. It’s… It’s… _Dad_. The tears brim and then fall. There’s no way Sam can keep them back this time. The laughter doesn’t stop even as the harsh thrusts resume, pounding into him as Sam lies there helplessly.

He thinks it can’t get any worse than this, until John stills above him once again. Suddenly, his father is swinging their bodies around and up to sitting, effortlessly keeping their connection, until Sam is sitting in his father’s lap, and he can feel the zipper of his father’s open jeans scraping against his own bare skin. His father’s thrusts gentle, and he pulls Sam in closer, nuzzling his rough-shaven skin against Sam’s throat. Dad’s hand wraps around Sam’s dick and Sam spreads his legs apart, allowing him better access. He thrusts up into his father’s hand, lets gravity impale him once more on his father’s dick, and then does it again, and again, his movements rapid and synchronized with his dad’s. He’s still crying, still doesn’t want this, but his body seems to have other ideas.

They pulse together until the orgasm builds, crests, breaks… his dad comes at the same time, his groans obscene as his come fills Sam’s body, warm and wet.

Sam’s aftershocks haven’t even completely faded before Dad pushes him away so harshly he sprawls face first in the middle of the road. “Just like old times, right, Sammy?” Dad laughs, his voice teasing and light.

“What? No!” Sam yells out, horrified, “We never…”

Dad blinks, and when his eyes open again, they’re glowing yellow. The demon wearing Dad’s skin leers at him for a moment, laughing cruelly. He steps into Sam’s space, roughly grabs hold and pulls Sam against him, covering Sam’s mouth with his own. His tongue thrusts deep inside, and Sam does nothing but whimper against the invasion.

The kiss continues as a hand comes up and covers Sam’s eyes and nose, cutting off his air flow. He can’t breathe, can’t see, and still the tongue roughly, possessively claims his own. 

By the time he starts to struggle the smallest bit, he’s getting light headed and his resistance is weak, as if his body has no strength. It’s all been stolen from him.

For a split second, he thinks he’s going to die, but then he’s harshly pushed away. He slams into a table as he stumbles back and collapses against it, shuddering.

“Go back to your place!” Tim screams at him so angrily that spittle flies from his lips. Sam throws himself to the floor and frantically crawls back over to the wall, rising up on his knees obediently so that he’s at the right height to pleasure the other hunter.

Tim stalks toward him, every bit the predator and Sam doesn’t think he can take another round. Tim and Reggie have both already taken a turn with him – Tim can’t possibly be ready to go a second time already. Sam’s mouth is swollen and sore, his jaw aching. “Please,” he begs when Tim gets near. “Please, just let her go. I did what you wanted.”

Tim is hard and leaking already, despite the fact that he’s still messy from Sam’s earlier efforts. Time must be moving oddly… or maybe he’s losing time. It’s the only thing he can think of to explain how Tim can be this excited this soon.

“Open wide, Sammy-boy,” Tim taunts, ramming himself inside as soon as Sam parts his lips. “Oh,” he groans, “Now this, is heaven.” Tim pants obscenely, his thrusts hard and deep and overwhelming. Sam’s head is pressed firmly against the wall behind him, and he can’t do anything except just take what Tim is forcing on him.

“God, son, you do learn fast. You have to have done this before.”

Tim thrusts forward hard enough that Sam gags, and a bit of bile bubbles up into his mouth. He can’t breathe, and he frantically tries to swallow the burning liquid back down before he aspirates it. He knows he’ll have no choice but to gulp air as soon as Tim allows it. “Who was your teacher, huh, Sam? Did your daddy teach you to do this when you were young? Did he shove his dick down your useless throat just like I am?”

Tim’s dick is still thrusting in and out deeply, and suddenly Sam can’t keep the image of his _Dad_ doing this to him out of his mind. It’s filthy and sick and wrong and he can’t stop the tears from spilling over. His dad doesn’t belong here, shouldn’t be in his thoughts as Tim groans and starts spurting down Sam’s throat. Tim finishes and shoves Sam roughly to the ground.

The bitter taste of come coats his mouth and he retches against the floor helplessly. He can’t stop his heaving even when the men do something that makes Lindsey cry out in pain or fear, he can’t tell the difference any more.

“Okay, Sam,” Tim says, moving back towards him, and something in the man’s voice, something darker that hadn’t been there before, makes Sam freeze with fear. “Time to wash my come off your face, you no good dirty piece of shit.” Sam’s still on the ground, supporting his upper body with his arms to keep himself out of the come and the vomit. “Look at me, Sam. Take your penance for Steve’s death like a man.”

Sam hesitates, and Lindsey cries out once again. Sam’s head snaps up automatically to find Tim standing over him, dick out and held loosely in Tim’s hand. Tim smiles, and the half-crazed expression sends an electric shock of panic through Sam’s body right before Tim lets loose with a steady stream.

Sam cries out and throws himself to the floor, but it’s not fast enough to keep the acrid liquid from burning into his eyes and nose, to keep it from splattering against his lips enough to taste the bitterness. He covers his head with his hands, not that it does much good, and keeps his head turned away, tries to tune out the steady pattering sound of the liquid splattering over his hair and back by squeezing his arms against his ears. It doesn’t help much.

Lindsey is sobbing openly now, yelling at Tim to stop it, to leave him alone, but her cries do nothing. The stream seems to go on and on, pinning Sam to the floor under the onslaught until Tim finishes with a satisfied groan and zips himself up. Tim crouches down and grabs Sam’s face. “You’re a blood-sucking freak, and death is too good for you. Admit it.”

“What?” Sam gasps.

“Admit what I just said, and maybe we’ll let the girl live,” Tim growls.

Lindsey cries out, and Sam’s tripping over the words in an effort to get them out fast enough. “I’m a blood-sucking freak, and death is too good for me.”

“That’s right,” Tim nods. “You’ve become one of the filthy things we hunt. You’re a monster, and nobody’s going to save you.”

Tim looks at Sam expectantly, and against the backdrop of Lindsey’s continuing sobs, he replies brokenly, “I’m one of the filthy things we hunt. I’m a monster, and nobody’s going to save me.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Tim responds. His fist slams into Sam’s face, sending him crashing to the ground. He stands up, looking at Sam coldly while he gathers his saliva and spits in Sam’s face.   

He doesn’t know why he ever thought he was the strong one. Dean and his dad should’ve just let him die in the fire when he was an infant.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice pulls his attention away from Tim towards the door into the bar. Dean’s standing there, looking pained. Sam lets out a panicked, “Shit,” and frantically wipes at his face to obscure the evidence of what he’s been doing. Dean probably isn’t real, but… on the off chance Sam is wrong, he can’t help but try to cover up his shame.

“What?” Sam whispers. His jeans are still around his ankles from when Reggie forced him to expose himself. Mortified, he staggers off the floor and pulls them quickly back up.

Dean looks horrified as he looks around the bar. Tim’s frozen in place, his eyes still boring into Sam with hatred and derision. Reggie and Lindsey are nowhere to be found.

“Where…” The word is scratchy, mumbled and barely audible. Dean has to clear his throat before trying again. “Where are we?” He still sounds wrecked, but at least Sam can understand the words now.

“The bar I worked at. The one in Oklahoma.” It suddenly occurs to Sam that he can talk now, but he’s too exhausted to question it. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

Dean moves clumsily over to Tim and stops in front of the unmoving man with a gasp. “Wait, I know him. This is the guy that gave you the demon blood, isn’t it?” Dean scrapes out angrily.

“I spit it out, Dean, I swear I spit it out,” Sam answers miserably.

When Dean turns back to Sam, his eyes are brimming with unshed tears. “Sam, why were you dreaming about…” Dean flails his hands uncomfortably. “ _That_.”

Sam folds in on himself, shaking with the confirmation that Dean _saw_.

 _He’s not real_ , Sam thinks furiously. _This isn’t really Dean_.

“Sam?” Dean’s crouching in front of him, and Sam has to keep his gaze on the floor to avoid meeting his brother’s eyes. Real or not, he doesn’t really want to have this conversation. “He didn’t… the demon blood isn’t all he did to you, is it. This… this isn’t just some fucked up dream that came out of nowhere.”

Dean sounds sickened, scared, but he’s not moving away, and eventually, Sam replies, “I… I don’t... I’ve… been having nightmares about it since it happened, I guess. I’m sorry.”

Dean jerks back. “You’re sorry? What the fuck for?”

“I don’t know, being weak? Being born?” Sam rasps out wretchedly. “What the hell do you want, Dean?” The hopeless look Dean gives him leaves him feeling gutted, but he still isn’t sure why his dream has turned in this direction – why his dream brought his brother here. His subconscious must really be trying to fuck with him this time.

“I need to know what’s been happening to you. I want to try to fix this. Why… why did you let him do that to you? Why didn’t you fight him off?”

Sam huffs out a dry, self-depreciating laugh. “Because I was too stupid to figure out how to fight him off and keep Reggie from putting a bullet in Lindsey’s head at the same time.”

An arm loops around Dean’s neck from out of nowhere and hauls him backwards. Dean’s gun clatters to the ground a moment later. “Well, look who’s come to play with us,” Tim purrs in Dean’s ear.

Sam freezes, his breaths speeding up so fast he can barely get enough air. He can’t watch Dean go through what he did, he _can’t_. It feels like he’s bolted to the wall though. He strains against the hold, but his muscles are largely unresponsive, and he can’t move away from the wall no matter how hard he tries.

Tim’s hand snakes around Dean’s body and plunges a hand down the front of Dean’s pants, making his brother cry out in alarm. “Get the fuck away from me!” Dean yells.

“Let him go!” Sam cries out at the same time, renewing his struggles against his invisible bonds, but nothing seems to happen. He lets out a miserable, useless sob when Dean hisses in pain at whatever Tim is doing to him.

“Sam! This is your dream! Take control of it! Now, damn it!” Dean’s shouting at Sam furiously as he struggles against his captor. He seems to be having about as much effect as Sam is, though. “Sam, please!” Dean yells, sharply.

Dean’s panic cuts through Sam’s helplessness like a knife. He jerks away from the wall and sends his body crashing into Tim’s, landing them all on the floor in an untidy heap.

The gun is in Sam’s hand, pointed at Tim’s head while Dean holds the man, the tables completely turned between one heartbeat and the next. No one else seems to notice the disconnect.

Tim smiles cruelly. “Go ahead and pull the trigger, Sammy-boy. I get to haunt you for the rest of your sorry life no matter what you do. I made sure I left a lasting impression.”

Sam takes a step to the side, angling himself so there’s no chance of hitting his brother, and fires. The blast sends blood splattering everywhere. Dean doesn’t even flinch.

Tim’s body suddenly disappears, and Dean falls backwards with a thud. “Ow,” Dean moans pitifully, rubbing at his head. He holds out his other hand and Sam takes it automatically, leveraging Dean up from the floor, but he drops it self-consciously as soon as Dean is up and in his space. He takes a guilty step back - he knows he’s filthy, knows Dean probably doesn’t want to be close to him now that he’s seen.

Dean’s still covered in gore, despite Tim’s disappearance. It’s a little surreal how the blood glows eerily against Dean’s skin in the dim light of the bar, with Dean seemingly unaware of his current state. 

“Guess it’s time to wake up now,” Sam mutters to himself. He pinches himself, and when that doesn’t work, tries to will himself awake. Nothing happens.

“Cas is keeping you out,” Dean says quietly.

“What?” Sam replies intelligently.

“I took dream-root to get here, and Cas is keeping you asleep so we can talk, so we can... He thought… he thought this might help.”

“Help? How?”

“It’s… can we go someplace more comfortable?” Dean deflects, looking around. “This place is creeping me out a little.”

“I guess.” Sam closes his eyes, tries to take control of the dream the way they did before, tries to imagine someplace safe.

The crickets burst into song again, but it’s soothing, not raucous like it was earlier. He opens his eyes to find Dean and himself next to the Impala in the middle of an open field. It’s late night or early morning, and the view of the stars is glorious.

Dean snorts and clasps his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You always did have a thing for starry nights,” Dean says affectionately. “You forgot the beer, though, bitch.”

The answering name is on the tip of Sam’s tongue, but there’s too much pain in the way to force it past his lips. Sam turns and bends forward to brace himself against the Impala’s fender. Dean doesn’t take his hand away.

“Tell me,” Dean whispers.

Sam shudders, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’m not going anywhere. I’m so fucking sorry I wasn’t there for you before,” Dean’s voice breaks slightly, “but I swear, I’m not going anywhere now. I’m listening. I don’t need every detail, but… you can’t keep it all inside anymore, you gotta give me enough to help you. Start with what happened in the bar. Please, Sam.”

His knees suddenly won’t support him anymore and he sinks all the way down to the ground. Dean follows him, his hand never losing contact with Sam’s shoulder.

There’s almost no moon, and despite the stars, it’s pretty dark. Still, Sam doesn’t think he can talk and look at Dean at the same time, so he turns away and leans his shoulder against the Impala’s front tire. Dean leans against the car behind him, letting his shoulder form a warm, comforting line of contact down Sam’s back.

“Demons showed up in the town I was working in,” Sam started with a sigh. “Tim and his friends were tracking them and asked for my help, but I refused.” Sam shrugged helplessly. “Steve didn’t make it out. Tim showed up later and tried to make me drink demon blood so I’d go after the demons and take them out. When that didn’t work, they brought in Lindsey, who was also working at the bar, to use as a hostage. Tim wanted…”

Sam cuts himself off, emotion threatening to strangle him. He can barely breathe, his breaths coming out rapid and short as he tries desperately to keep it all inside.

Dean stays still, an unwavering line of support against Sam’s back. Sam forces deeper breaths in and out, somehow pulls strength from his brother to get himself under enough control to continue, “He just wanted to humiliate me a little bit. Made me give him and Reggie blow jobs in exchange for Lindsey not getting hurt. Then they let the girl go and took off. That’s all that happened.” He didn’t understand why Tim was still haunting his dreams. They were just blow-jobs.

“What I saw, back there…”

And fuck, Dean _saw_. Sam can’t contain his sob at the realization.

Dean's grip tightens on Sam’s shoulders as he continues, “That was a hell of a lot more complicated than a blow job, Sammy. That was… Plus, I saw your injuries.” Dean sounded calm. The rigid way he was holding himself said otherwise. “That’s not all that happened. Not all that’s _still_ happening. You have to tell me. I swear to you, whatever it is, I’ll understand. Probably better than anybody else.”

Sam can feel the bile inching up his throat. He knows he needs to tell Dean… but… he can’t quite force the damning words out.

“Sammy…” the word whispers across the field, making Sam jump. A puff of warm, moist air against his face, at an angle that can’t possibly be Dean, causes cold sweat to bead along his forehead and down his back as he looks frantically for the source of his name.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, tightening the grip on Sam’s shoulder enough to be uncomfortable. Dean probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Did you hear that?” Sam chokes out.

“Hear what?” Dean asks, confused. “We’re all alone out here.”

“Sam…” It’s Nick’s voice, and it’s close. Too close. A cold, wet finger glides over Sam’s bottom lip.

Sam surges backwards to get away, only to be blocked by his brother. “Please, stop,” he begs shamelessly.

Dean wraps himself around Sam, grabbing Sam’s face and forcing their eyes to meet. “Sam! Nobody’s here but me. I swear.” Sam can still feel the warm puffs of breath against his face. “Look at me!” Dean shouts when Sam’s attention shifts to the side, jerking Sam’s face back.

Their bodies are entwined, Dean’s face inches from his own, and suddenly, Sam’s overcome with a desire to lose himself in his brother, to shut everything else out. He stretches up and covers Dean’s mouth with his own. Dean doesn’t pull away immediately, doesn’t even close his mouth, and Sam takes advantage, plunging hungrily into the warm, welcoming heat to lick the taste of Dean into his mouth.

The moment doesn’t last long. Dean jerks away, pushing Sam back, a confused, “What the fuck?” slipping past his spit-damp lips.

Sam’s naked now, completely exposed, and for a moment, he can’t remember why that’s a bad thing.

Dean’s gaze wanders lower, probably realizing the same thing. He freezes for a single heart beat. Abruptly, he’s scrambling back, but he doesn’t leave, just kneels at Sam’s side. He runs his gaze over Sam’s body, his breath held, and then trains on Sam’s exposed chest. “Shit,” he whispers. Unsteady fingers slide over Sam’s burn, tracing the shape of Lucifer’s hand. “What’s been happening to you? When… Who did this?” Dean asks, unable to keep the fearful tremor out of his voice. “What didn’t I see?” he adds, anguish roughening his tone.

Sam curls into himself on his side protectively, but Dean stops him, pulling him back with both hands on Sam’s shoulders to keep him in place. Sam’s too exhausted to struggle. It’s not like it ever helps anyway.

“That night, Lucifer appeared to me in a dream. Told me I was his vessel. That’s when I called you. He wanted… he doesn’t know where I am. He wants me to tell him. He keeps… he keeps coming back… thinks if he keeps… if he hurts me enough I’ll say yes.”

“Oh, God,” Dean moans. “Sam, I’m… Jesus. I should have known. I mean, I knew something was wrong but…” Dean’s eyes are full and pleading for forgiveness. His voice softens as he continues, “I thought I had all the answers, I didn’t… I pushed you away.” Dean whispers, horrified.

Sam can hear the self-recrimination in Dean’s voice. “No, it’s okay, Dean,” he hurries to reassure. “You changed your mind pretty fast. God, you’re the only thing that’s been keeping me sane.”

“I wasn’t going to. I… wasn’t going to. I wasn’t planning on ever seeing you again. But then Zachariah showed me the future, showed me what would happen if nothing changed. You said yes.”


	11. Part Ten

**Part Ten**

A small, wounded sound forces it’s way out of Sam’s throat, panic, heavy and thick, pouring over him and weighing him down until he can’t move.

“Sam, it’s okay. I swear,” Dean murmurs, pulling Sam up and into his arms. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to you again. I fixed it by coming back. You’re okay. It’s okay. I changed everything.”

“I don’t… I think Lucifer’s winning, Dean.” The words are tumbling out of Sam now, fueled by the desperate fear he’s been living with for weeks. “I can’t… He comes in my dreams all the time, and when he does… he does… stuff. When I wake up, it’s all real, and I can’t… he’s winning, Dean. I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m not strong enough. I was wrong, before. I’m not strong like you…”

“Hey, stop that,” Dean says forcefully. “Look at me.”

Sam can’t make himself move, but Dean doesn’t wait, he moves around until he’s in front of Sam, forcing Sam to meet his eyes. “You haven’t said yes. Right?”

He gives Sam a small shake and Sam responds by shaking his head.

“You haven’t said yes, and it’s not going to come to that.”

“I’m not you… Thirty years is…” the terror racing through his body claws at his throat, and his voice sounds strained and high pitched when he adds, “I can’t last that long! I’m not going to…”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts loudly, “You. Haven’t. Said. Yes.” Dean’s looking at Sam like he’s trying to bore that message into Sam’s head.

Dean takes a deep breath and his gaze bleeds some of its intensity. The usual mask is suddenly gone and Dean looks… haunted. “They were toying with me. It was the same thing everyday. The routine made it easier, I could lose myself in the pain and know that it would simply start over again the same way the next day. I didn’t have anything to gain by saying yes. It was torture or be tortured. Nobody seemed to really care which choice I made. So I chose to take it until I just… couldn’t anymore.

“But it was the relentlessness of the pain, always the same… that’s what wore me down. It wasn’t any particular event. Nothing changed between the day I said no and the day I said yes, because nothing really _ever_ changed.

“I don’t know what I would have done if I’d have had to wake up to normal everyday, if I knew saying yes would make everything stop. But I know _you_ , Sam, and knowing what Lucifer will be capable of if you say yes, knowing what saying no will prevent? You’re gonna be able to hold on longer than you think you are.”

“But you…” Sam starts.

“No! You can’t keep comparing yourself to me, damn it. It’s not a fucking competition! You’re gonna make yourself nuts.”

“Samuel, come here.” Nick is standing at the foot of the bed, glaring at Sam. His voice is cold, angry.

Sam shivers even though he isn’t cold, even though Lucifer’s appearance leaves him dead inside.

“Shit, Sam! Stay here, stay with me!” Dean yells frantically, clutching at Sam, grabbing at his face, trying to get his focus back, but his eyes are locked on Lucifer; Sam can’t look away.

Sam can feel his cheek splitting open, his teeth breaking, can feel the lashes that cover his body tearing back open. He’s completely helpless against the onslaught; there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “No,” he moans as he drops to the floor, unable to support his own weight.

His ass is on fire once again, dripping with come and blood, used. The disgusting slip-slide of body fluids is sticky between his legs and on his back. The device is once again wrapped around his dick, holding him hard, burning its way inside of him, all the way to his center. He’s desperate to get the thing off, can’t help but grab at himself to pull on the metal, even though it intensifies the burn and the fullness, leaves him even more desperate and needy. Even though he knows there’s no removing it until Lucifer allows him to. Dean is bearing witness to his shame this time, and that knowledge fans his self-disgust, his self-loathing, into an unbearable inferno.

His skin is burning again – the brands bubble up, then burst. He screams in agony, unable to stop the harsh sounds that rip his throat to shreds. Even the strangulation bruises which decorate once more his neck can’t cut off the hideous, useless noise. His bones shatter into pieces, the crushing, grinding noise of it somehow audible even over his cries. His ear explodes, leaking down the side of his face and leaving everything muffled only moments before everything goes dark once more. His eyes drip gore down his cheeks like tears, and all he can do is writhe helplessly on the floor as the hopeless, agonizing torment overwhelms his mind and batters his sanity.

He’s barely aware of Lucifer picking him up and carrying him over to the bed. He can’t do anything but whimper and moan and scream for his brother to stop this, to help him, but somehow, Lucifer’s words still filter through his consciousness, “You want your brother, Sam?”

“Yes,” Sam gasps, “please, please.” He’s not above begging, not anymore.

Dean wraps himself around Sam’s broken body, whispers soothingly, “shh… I’m here, Sammy.” The pain fades, and Sam turns his head towards his brother to press their lips together gratefully. Dean returns the kiss fiercely, answering Sam’s aching hunger with wanton abandon. He rolls towards his brother and presses his already rigid dick against Dean’s, seeking comfort, seeking a relief from the pain, seeking out anything that might make him feel good for even a moment in the midst of the never-ending cycle of hurt.

“Do you want me, Sam?” Dean asks huskily, his voice burning with lust.

“Please, Dean, need you, need you inside me, now, please.”

“Yeah, Sam, that’s good, that’s good…” Dean’s hands are everywhere, stroking his hard length, reaching around to prod at Sam’s hole, and grasping his face in both hands… Sam is suddenly dizzy and sick. Dean is both above him and beside him, and the double image is making his eyes water.

“Sam,” Dean’s yelling, anger and frustration and raw panic edging his voice. “Sam!” the one gripping his face yells, “That’s not me! It’s not me, damn it!” Dean goes down on him at the same moment, hot and filthy, his tongue slipping between Sam’s skin and the metal encasing him. His tongue is playing with the piercing, sending jagged fireworks of sensation through him, pleasure mixing with pain until Sam is desperate to come, stopped only by the ring at the base of his dick.

He wants to let his eyes roll back in his head, wants to close his eyes altogether and just lose himself in the sensation, but, he stubbornly keeps his eyes locked on his brother’s anxious face. He whimpers in confusion, unable to form words, to even chain thoughts together in his head.

“I’m here!” Dean’s still yelling at him, desperate, scared, “Take us back to the Impala, Sammy! You’re the one in control – this is _your_ dream, damn it!” Dean only receives a startled gasp of pleasure for all his demands, and suddenly, the fear slips away from Dean. He’s glaring at Sam, the expectation of being obeyed as clear as it ever was when Dad was training them. “Sam,” he barks out angrily, “Go back to the Impala. Now!”

Sam can’t not obey that order, his instincts have been too long ingrained. Obey without question or die. It’s as simple as that. The room flickers, disappears only to be replaced with the star filled canopy and open field, plus the only thing he’s ever really been able to call home. He slaps a hand against the cool, black metal, lets the familiar weight soothe his shattered nerves. He’s still throbbing, hard, wanton lust for his brother riding him, keeping him on the edge. The contraption is still wrapped around him though, keeping him from release.

He whimpers helplessly when Dean pulls Sam’s unresisting body against his own, holding Sam in a tight embrace as if Dean’s never going to let him go. “Jesus, Sam,” Dean whispers against Sam’s neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Sam can feel moisture seeping onto his shoulder. He can’t make sense of it, can’t do anything but cling to his brother and pray that Dean’s never going to leave him again.

“You’re running out of time, Dean.” Cas’ voice startles Sam, fills him with fear, and he tries to break away from Dean’s hold to scurry away, but Dean refuses to let him go.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, still wrapped around Sam tightly. “He’s not ready. I can’t do this to him. Not right now.”

“Lucifer knows what you are attempting to do here, Dean,” Cas rasps, “Your presence makes it more difficult for him, but it is not yet enough to keep him away for long. You need to either do what you came here to do, or we need to retreat and try to figure out another plan to save your brother.

“No!” Dean spits out, his hold tightening around Sam to the point of being painful once again. “No, I’m not leaving Sam to that monster.”

“Then you know what needs to be done,” Cas says gravely.

Sam’s having trouble focusing. The hotel room is superimposed over the grassy field and he can feel Lucifer’s rage, knows he’s only making things worse by ignoring him. He can’t make himself push Dean away despite the dread that’s burning through him, pulsing stronger and stronger as each moment passes.

“Samuel,” the voice slithers across the grass. No one seems to hear it but Sam. “You’re only making this worse for your brother by hiding from me. Do you really want to sacrifice him to save yourself a bit of pain?”

“No!” Sam cries out angrily. The room sharpens and the field fades, until they’re equal in opacity.

“Fuck!” Dean swears, grabbing Sam’s face and forcing Sam to look at him. “You’re mine,” he says furiously. “You’ve always been mine, Sam, and I’m not letting you go. You _stay_ with me, you hear me?” Dean orders angrily. “You stay with me, Sammy, or so help me God…”

Dean seems to run out of words and trails off. His anger fades slightly, and he looks suddenly unsure of himself. Cas has sunk down into the grass and is chanting words Sam has never heard before in Enochian. He opens his mouth to ask what’s happening, but before he can get the words out, his name echoes across the field like a thunder clap, dark and foreboding, and this time, even Dean seems to hear it.

Sam jerks back, fear licking up his spine, but something… something almost primal steals over Dean, and suddenly he’s pulling Sam in, crashing their mouths together and demanding entrance.

Sam opens under the onslaught, eagerly accepts Dean’s tongue as Dean sinks against him with a needy moan. Dean’s biting and licking at Sam’s mouth, his lips, his tongue, exploring him hungrily. If Sam had any doubts about truly wanting this before, they’re gone now. Sam kisses back, this time answering need with need as equals.

Dean pulls back just enough to mutter fiercely, “You’re mine, Sam,” before biting down on Sam’s lower lip so hard Sam can taste the sharp, copper tang of blood. Dean pulls Sam’s lip into his mouth, sucking on it greedily before biting on it harshly again and pulling back, letting his teeth scrap over the skin, stretching Sam’s lip taught until it slips free with a soft popping noise.

Dean stands, pulling Sam up with him, and walks Sam backwards until they’re standing in front of the hood of the Impala. Dean kisses him again, worrying at the wound in his lip and causing more blood to flow before licking at it tenderly.

Impatiently, Dean pushes Sam back until he’s splayed over the Impala’s hood and then reluctantly lets Sam’s lips go. He pulls back, stripping off his clothes before leaning forward and sliding down Sam’s torso slowly. His tongue travels over the skin of Sam’s chest, tentative at first, and then growing bolder, licking long swaths across Sam’s skin, stopping to nibble at Sam’s nipples, one and then the other until they’re just as hard as  the rest of him.

Sam can feel Dean’s mood change as he shifts his attention to the hand print burned over Sam’s heart. He kisses the scarred skin gently once, twice, three times, before tenderly licking across it, exploring the hurt with his tongue. Sam can’t help but flinch back a bit under the attention, even as his dick pulses hungrily with the stimulation. He doesn’t want anyone looking at the mark, let alone touching the filthy thing. He can’t keep his disgust inside, and it escapes in the form of tears that slip down the side of his face.

Dean moves back up until they’re face to face again. He places a light kiss against Sam’s temple, again whispers, “You’re mine,” against Sam’s moist skin. Dean licks at the trail of tears, first one side, then the other, before adding, “He doesn’t get you, Sammy. I’m taking you back. D’you understand?” He says the last looking intently into Sam’s eyes, and Sam nods once; not giving Dean permission for this is simply not an option. He’s far too selfish to deny it.

Dean pushes Sam further up the Impala’s hood, so that his ass is resting at the edge, his feet on the fender. The metal under him is warm despite the coolness of the night, as if her motor was running not so long ago, as if she’s prepared to welcome them home. Sam’s suddenly aching to climb inside with his brother, tell Dean to just drive until they’re lost from all the things they’re responsible for, lost from everything that wants to use them.

Dean slides down until he’s kneeling in the grass, keeping the contact between them as much as possible as he moves, letting warm skin, slick with sweat, slide gently between them until his knees hit the ground and he is forced to stop.

Sam can feel Dean’s warm breath against his dick, can hear his brother’s harsh, pained sob as he kneels in front of Sam, positioning himself between Sam’s legs. Sam raises his head and looks down at himself. The cage is gone from around his genitals, but the skin is still irritated, red and angry, the puncture wound still visible along the sides. “Mine,” Dean mutters furiously, just before taking Sam into his mouth and slipping down until Sam can feel the back of his throat. Pleasure swells along his dick as Dean sucks him in, and Sam can’t hold back is small needy moans. Dean gags a little, it’s clear he isn’t practiced with this, but he doesn’t pull off, just slides back until his lush lips are kissing Sam’s tip before sliding back down.

Dean plays with the skin of his dick as he bobs up and down, raises his other hand to play with Sam’s sack and the skin right behind it as he moves. It only takes half a dozen pulses before Sam’s ready to lose it. “Dean,” he gasps out frantically, “Dean, I’m… I’m gonna…”

Sam tries to push Dean away, but Dean swallows Sam down as far as he can, plunging Sam deep into the back of his throat, and there isn’t anymore holding back.

He erupts upwards into Dean’s mouth, screaming out his pleasure and fear, but his brother doesn’t pull away, keeps his mouth locked over Sam, coaxing each throb of ecstasy out of Sam and swallowing everything he has to give.

“I’m sorry,” Sam’s mumbling fearfully, gasping out the words, “I’m sorry, I didn’t… mean…”

“Shhh…” Dean hisses as he slides back up Sam’s body. Sam’s lip is still bleeding sluggishly, and Dean licks over it, sucks on it, before bring his gaze up to meet Sam’s. “I’m okay, Sam. You’re mine.” Sam’s not sure why Dean keeps repeating that, but he can’t deny that it’s true so he doesn’t question, just nods his acquiescence.

Dean closes his eyes, looking guilty for the first time, and Sam is suddenly aware that Cas is still chanting in the grass, the urgency clear in his ever increasing volume. He brings his gaze up to Dean’s uncertainly when Dean clears his throat nervously. “I need to… god, Sam, I’m gonna need to come inside of you.”

Dean dips his head and buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck. He nibbles over the skin lightly, teasingly, before gathering more skin between his teeth and biting down hard. Sam’s dick twitches gamely, trying to perk back up as Dean sucks the skin of Sam’s neck into his mouth hard enough to bruise. He lets it go briefly, then bites down hard once more, making his attempt to mark Sam clear. Sam can’t deny the spark of pleasure the thought of Dean’s mark on his neck gives him. 

“I need you, Sam, please,” he mutters between pressing kisses against the tender skin. “I don’t want to hurt you, but… I need to do this, please. Say you’re okay with it, please. I need to know you’re okay with this.”

Dean’s sweating heavily, and a drop crests to slide down the side of Dean’s face. Sam leans forward to lick it away, presses a kiss against the skin before slowly pulling his feet all the way up, until they’re resting on the hood, leaving himself open and exposed. “I trust you, Dean,” he manages to rasp out around the tension in his throat.

“Sam…” Dean breathes out before leaning forward to press their bodies together. He reaches between them to run his fingers over Sam’s hole, tapping gently to get try to get Sam to loosen up, to let him in. Dean’s breath hitches and he pulls his hand back, looking at Sam with a hint of fear in his eyes. “This is going to hurt, Sammy,” Dean whispers. “We can’t…” he glances at Cas, but Cas is so lost in his mysterious chanting that he doesn’t give any hint of noticing. Dean drags his gaze back to Sam’s. The fear is blazing fiercely now. “We can’t, shit, we can’t use any lube,” he rushes out, “He said… there can’t be anything between us.”

Dean looks like he’s two seconds away from bolting, and Sam doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but it’s clear Dean and Cas are trying to do _something_ , and he’s learned his lesson about not trusting his brother. He grabs Dean’s hand and brings Dean’s fingers to his mouth, kissing the tips before sucking them wetly into his mouth, his eyes pleading with Dean to know that Sam _trusts_ him. Slowly, Dean’s fear bleeds away to be replaced with resolute determination.

Without breaking eye contact, Dean stands and steps back. A small, worried moan tickles the back of Sam’s throat, but Dean shakes his head slightly and crouches down to pick something up from the grass.

When he stands, Sam sees a glint of steel in his hand. Sam doesn’t quite have time to process the implications before Dean steps back between Sam’s legs, takes the knife and curls his right hand along the blade, pulling it free with a rapid, downward jerk.

“Dean?” Sam questions, alarmed.

“It’s okay, Sam,” Dean mutters. He strokes his hand over Sam’s face for a moment, letting the blood slick down his fingers, and then gently presses the reddened digit against Sam’s lips. Sam whimpers, can’t quite keep the fear and shame from rushing through his veins as Dean pushes his bloody finger into Sam’s mouth.

He licks the skin tentatively, but it’s nothing like the rush of demon blood. It’s simple and clean and _Dean_ , and his fear inches back as he swallows what Dean’s giving him. Dean pulls his hand free and quickly runs the blade against Sam’s chest in the center of Lucifer’s mark before Sam can even think to protest. Sam barely feels it – Dean keeps his blades sharp, but he can feel the sudden well of blood that immediately spills out over the burn. Dean places his own freely bleeding hand over Lucifer’s mark and presses the mirrored wounds together. Cas’ chanting simultaneously grows in intensity, his voice booming out across the field.

“You ready, Sam?” Dean asks.

Sam nods, once, and Dean tosses the knife aside to clatter softly against the hood, pushes his now freed hand into Sam’s mouth, letting Sam slick up the digits as much as he can before Dean pulls free and presses his fingers back against Sam’s hole. Sam clenches up, he can’t help it; the fear of pain and humiliation are too much to bear, even if it is Dean’s hand resting against him, asking permission.

Dean keeps his right hand against Sam’s chest, leans in until his lips tickle against Sam’s ear. “It’s going to be okay, Sam. I’ve got you.”

Sam feels his muscles relax at the promise, and Dean pushes his thumb inside, sinking into Sam’s body insistently.

Cas is suddenly there, standing over them, picking up the bloodied knife and sliding it along his own hand before pressing it over Dean’s, increasing the pressure against Sam’s chest, all the while continuing his chanting. The need in Sam is building faster than he’s ever experienced before. Dean’s thumb isn’t enough, and he whispers, begs, “Dean…” as he pushes himself against Dean’s hand, willing it deeper.

Dean pulls free, but replaces his thumb with only two fingers. The burn is intense, the pain firing through his body, but he needs more – the pain is nothing compared to the burning need to have Dean inside of him _now_. “Dean!” he shouts, “Please, just do it already!”

Dean’s breaths are coming out hard and fast, his eyes glazed with lust, and he doesn’t argue, simply nods once and pulls himself free, lining up his dick. Sam doesn’t wait for Dean to push in – he surges up, forcing the breach, and Dean lets out an obscene moan as he sinks into Sam. Dean pushes back, gasping as their bodies join like they’ve always belonged together. Cas’ hand is still pinning Sam to the Impala under Dean’s grasp, and the chanting is almost deafening now.

Sam undulates up at the same time as Dean pulses down, pressing himself in deeply, and they instinctively set a rhythm together, building quickly to a climax, and Sam can tell they aren’t going to last any longer than he did the first time.

It isn’t enough, Sam doesn’t want it to end, but he can already feel his balls drawing up, can already feel the tremors in Dean’s body, and he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop this. Dean crashes their mouths together as the first pulse of ecstasy hits them simultaneously, their bodies slapping together in a staccato rhythm. Dean yells into Sam’s mouth, and Sam joins him, their voices merging as the world is devoured around them, leaving them devoid of anything but each other.

Another wave of pleasure washes over Sam, and then another, and then suddenly Cas is gone, and Dean’s body is cooling against his own, both of them tangled together on the hood of the Impala, with the stars shining down.

~o0O0o~

Sam came awake slowly, filled with a sense of contentment and peace that hadn’t been with him for weeks… months, really, maybe even more like years. He could tell his body was entwined with someone else’s, but he couldn’t seem to make his mind analyze who. He inhaled deeply, let it out with a long sigh, and then his brain picked up a bit, trying to decipher the smells that lingered around him. The bed stank of sweat and sex. Which… was odd. Of course, he was in bed with someone, so it kind of made a certain amount of sense. For Dean more than him, admittedly, but still… The person shifted and moaned softly…

Sam was off the bed and scrambling backwards so fast he dragged all the blankets with him, leaving Dean’s very _naked_ body exposed to the world. Memories of the dream he’d had came flooding back, and by the time Sam was able to sort them all out, he was practically hyperventilating.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice was frighteningly close, and Sam startled, flinching back when Dean’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Sam, I… shit.” Dean pulled away, snagging one of the blankets back from Sam as he moved, and leaned back against the bed, his gaze on Sam wary.   

Sam looked away first, feeling guilty and confused and unsure who to blame for that. Unsure _what_ to blame for that.

“Holy crap,” Dean murmured, wide eyes locked on Sam’s chest.

Sam looked down self-consciously at his mutilated chest, only to discover that the scar was completely different than it had been. It was small and no longer hand shaped, no longer ugly, even. It was… it looked… Enochian, but it wasn’t a tattoo – it looked like something had carved it into his skin, and then healed it to form a pattern of long, slightly raised scars. It looked purposeful now, meaningful, instead of dirty and possessive.

Still, it wasn’t anything he’d agreed to, not anything he’d asked for, and that was… He could feel his eyes burning with anger, with rage. He pulled his knees up and placed his fists on them, hunching forward to press them into his eyes. He was so tired. He just wanted everything to stop.

“I think it…” Dean had to stop and clear his throat, “I think maybe it worked. At least, that scar is… I don’t know, man, can you talk?”

Sam stiffened, his mind blank. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing besides a _No_ that had the power to deafen the universe. That’d be good payback. He was still not above a little revenge, apparently.

There was no pain, he realized suddenly. Well, at least, comparatively little. It still felt like he was fucked raw, and given the smell… but there was no pain like what he’d been living with. He eased back from his hands and threw off the blankets to look at himself.

“Sam?” Dean asked, his voice raw with concern, with fear.

Sam ignored him. His vision was clear. There were no scars that couldn’t be explained by old hunts. He didn’t know what to do with that. Rage burned in his gut. He should be happy, should be…

“Sam?” Dean was starting to sound panicked, and he reached out towards Sam, probably to soothe, but Sam couldn’t…

He slammed his brother’s hand away with a harsh sob, yelling out, “No!” loud enough to echo slightly in the small room. He kept his shaking hand in front of him like a shield, warding his brother away. “Don’t…” his voice caught when the word actually came out, continued, “Don’t touch me. I don’t… Just, don’t, please.”

Dean backed slowly away, pushing himself up from the floor to perch on the edge of the bed, looking at Sam like Sam was a wild animal that needed to be approached with caution.

Sam was shaking so badly that he couldn’t keep his hand up anymore, and he wrapped his arms around his knees as best as he could. He couldn’t seem to stop the tears that were falling down his face, even though the rage had gone out like a match, leaving him feeling nothing, leaving him empty. He didn’t have anything left. It was like his soul was gone and he’d become the epitome of a vessel, Lucifer could step in now, and there would be nothing there to expunge.

“I’m sorry, Sam. Cas said it was the only way to… Cas said it was the only way to… God, please don’t hate me. I don’t think I could handle that… just… please don’t…”

“Just leave, Dean,” Sam whispered.

“Wh… What?” Dean stammered.

“Just… I don’t… I can’t do this right now. Just… just go.”

Dean rose slowly, reluctantly, keeping – thank God – the blanket wrapped around himself. “Yeah. Okay. I can… I’m not… I’ll just be downstairs, or something. I’m not going far,” Dean’s voice was shaking, scared, but Sam still couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you again and I meant it. I’ll be back to check on you in a little while, o…”

“Just, Go!” Sam yelled at the floor.

“Yeah, yeah okay,” Dean said, moving to the door. The door snicked quietly shut behind him.

Sam didn’t move from the floor, couldn’t seem find the energy to do anything other than stare morosely into space. It was a relief, in a way, not to have to think, not to feel fear, not to feel anything at all.

Eventually he lay down where he was, let his eyes drop closed. Everything was over. He could sleep without fear, if Dean could be believed, and he let that relief carry him away.

~o0O0o~

When he woke up in Bobby’s house again, with no real memories of dreaming, Sam realized that a lot of the tension he’d been carrying around was just… gone. He was okay. Everything that had happened, had happened in dreams, and the good thing about dreams was that they had a tendency to fade pretty quickly. Everything he went through felt blurry and surreal. It was over. He made it through, and he was back with Dean…

Okay, so _that_ dream was still pretty vivid. His cheeks burned as he remembered Dean’s fingers pushing inside of him, a ghost of sensation that felt raw and good, but, it was more than that, it was gentle caresses and heat and intimacy with Dean like he’d always craved. Not… not like that, of course, but, for as close as they always were, there’d always been a physical disconnect between them that had never really sat well with him. Ever since Dean had really started hunting, Dean had acted like he didn’t need to be touched, like, if Sam gave him a hug, it would be admitting that the job, that their lives, were getting to him. No chick-flick moments. Dean had insisted on that over and over again. So Sam had held back, respecting Dean’s silent cues.

Sam had practically shoved Dean out of the room thinking that Sam hated him for what they’d done together. _Shit_. Dean wasn’t the one Sam hated. Shame left him gasping for breath as he tried to keep everything under control. He was more than ready to go back to normal. Well, normal for them, at least. He needed to find Dean and admit his screw up. He wasn’t even sure why he had pushed his brother away, now.

Sam dragged his sorry ass off of the floor, snagged a pair of boxers and slipped them on before moving to open the door so he could find Dean. He didn’t have to look far – Dean was on the floor in the hallway, asleep sitting up with his back to the opposite wall, still covered by the blanket and not much else.

“Dean?” Sam rasped out. His voice sounded like shit.

Dean startled awake and then scrambled to his feet, the blanket forgotten on the floor. “What…” he started groggily.

Sam had to work to keep the smirk off his face as he interrupted, “Hey, can you just… can we talk?”

“O…kay,” Dean replied slowly, warily. Sam wasn’t sure what clued him in, but suddenly Dean was collapsing back to the floor to cover himself back up with the blanket. “What do… um, what do you want to talk about?” he stammered out, a pretty red blush fanning out across his skin.

“Well, for starters, how ‘bout the fact that your dick was up my ass…” Sam snapped caustically.

Dean flinched back, and Sam silently cussed himself out. He wasn’t even sure where that had come from. He wasn’t angry. Not at Dean, at least. God, his comment made him sound like a first class asshole.

“I need a drink for this conversation,” Dean muttered.

He started to get up and Sam lunged forward and grabbed Dean’s arm angrily. “No. You don’t… you don’t get to walk out on this conversation, Dean. Sit the fuck down and talk to me.” Okay, so much for not being angry. What the hell was wrong with him?

Dean grudgingly sat back down on the floor, which was good – saved Sam from having to deck him. His anger mellowed a bit when he remembered the last time he’d done that. He couldn’t take that fight back no matter how much it still hurt.

“We had to find a way to block Lucifer from hurting you in your dreams,” Dean muttered defensively.

“Oookay,” Sam replied slowly. “So… obviously, the way to accomplish that was to fuck your own brother.” Dean flinched again and Sam was about ready to deck himself, but he couldn’t seem to keep his feelings in check. Guilt was coursing through him, but he didn’t know how to take the words back – the sentiment was true enough, even if he knew it was completely unfair to blame Dean.

“No, I… It… was Cas’ idea… not that I’m blaming this on him or anything, I just...” Dean paused, took a deep breath before continuing in his usual husky voice, the one he saved for the serious discussions. “Anyway, he noticed a pattern between the visitations, and concluded that my presence was what was keeping Lucifer away. He said Lucifer was trying to put a claim on your soul, and that what we did, it was a way to block that.” Dean’s face was fire-engine red by that point. Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen Dean blush that hard, and it twitched his lips up slightly, despite the seriousness of the situation.

“What we did… it’s incest, Dean,” Sam said quietly. And he’d do it again in a heartbeat, if he thought Dean wanted it, but he wouldn’t be admitting that out loud any time soon. He couldn’t do that to Dean.

“I know,” Dean replied miserably. “If we had any other ideas… but, we didn’t, and… God, Sam, I’m so fucking sorry. I… we were losing you. I didn’t know what else to do. I can leave, if you don’t want me around anymore. I… I’ll understand.”

“Dean, I…” God, Sam didn’t want to confess, didn’t want to talk about it at all, but Dean was self-flagellating in a spectacular way, and Sam couldn’t not put the blame where it belonged. “You saw, Dean. I know you did. How can I hate you? I’ve been fantasizing about having sex with you practically since this whole thing started.”

“That was only because Lucifer was screwing with you,” Dean growled.

Sam flinched. He couldn’t help it. Dean’s words were a little too literally true, even if Dean didn’t mean them that way.

Cas abruptly appeared between them.

“Fuck!” Dean complained sourly. “Couldn’t you appear downstairs and just walk up the damn stairs?”

Ignoring Dean, Cas’ worried gaze locked on Sam, lingering more on Sam’s new scar than on anything else.

Cas had been there. Cas had been there when he and Dean had been…

Sam had momentarily blocked that out, but now he kind of wanted to sink into the floor. Like the angels needed more reasons to think he was an abomination.

Cas’s stare wavered, and he silently turned his attention back to Dean. “I believe it worked,” he said cautiously. “Lucifer will no longer have access to Sam’s subconscious.”

Dean stood up from his position on the floor, clutching his blanket close, and looked Cas in the eyes. “That’s… good right? Why do you still look vaguely constipated?”

“I do not have to…”

“Okay, dude,” Dean cut him off, “over-sharing there. Just tell me why the hell you’re still worried.”

Cas nodded, “Lucifer is strong. I believe it may be necessary to refresh your claim, occasionally. In the mean time, I do not belie…”

“Wait, hold on there, cowboy, there was no mention of refreshing before! What the hell?”

Dean sounded completely panicked, and suddenly the fear of Dean abandoning Sam was back with a vengeance, leaving him shaking and restless, but with nowhere to go.

“I had hoped it would not be needed, but, after seeing what we are up against, I believe it would be a wise precaution. A simple exchange of fluids, with intent behind it, should be enough.”

Dean interrupts, “Cas, please tell me you’re planning to clarify that statement?”

Cas gave Dean a puzzled look, then added, “A kiss, a kiss with intent to claim. That should be enough to accomplish what you need, give you enough to keep the magic fueled.”

Dean sighed heavily, muttered a somewhat sarcastic sounding, “Okay,” under his breath.

Cas rewarded Dean with a pensive look. “In the meantime, what you did will only be effective as long as you are not found. You should leave here immediately. This place is too obvious, and you put Bobby Singer in danger by being here. Actually,” Cas reconsidered, “Bobby should probably leave here as well, he is an obvious choice to attempt to torture for information, and an obvious choice to be used against you.”

“Cas…” before Dean could get out another word, Cas was gone. “God damn it, Cas!” Dean yelled after him.

Bile stirred in Sam’s gut. Dean had been forced to fuck him, and now his brother couldn’t escape. Dean had tied himself to Sam, and that was probably never his intention.

Sam couldn’t do this. It was stuffy in the small, narrow hallway, making it feel as if there wasn’t enough air; Sam’s breathing sped up in response. It didn’t really help. It was way too warm. The sweat was beading on his skin uncomfortably. He didn’t remember Bobby’s house ever being this warm before. He swiped a trembling hand across his forehead, his breathing stepping up even more as the air thinned. He couldn’t…

“Hey, Sam…” Dean was crouching in front of him, blanket forgotten, steady hands holding his face. “Come on, man, you’re going to hyperventilate. You need to slow your breathing down.” Dean settled down next to Sam and pulled him in close, looking intently at nothing. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just match your breathing to mine, okay?”

Sam tried to do what Dean was asking, and it did help some, but the panic wasn’t easing back. “I can’t… I can’t do this by myself,” he gasped out hopelessly.

“Who said you’re gonna have to?” Dean growled.

“I… You can’t seriously be thinking of sticking around after what Cas said?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean responded, a touch of confusion in his voice, “I think I might be. Do you think I shouldn’t?”

“Yes,” Sam replied. There was no force behind the word, though. Not near enough anyway.

“Well, fuck that. I’m not leaving you again. We face Lucifer together, or not at all.”

“You’re stronger without me, you said it yourself. And I’m not… I can’t…”

“Then I’ll be strong for you,” Dean interrupted, “just like you were for me, last year. Look, ever since this all started, they’ve been trying to split us apart, Ruby, Lucifer, all the god damn angels. I think it’s about time we gave all of them the finger and choose our own damn path, don’t you?”

“But…”

Dean cut his protest off by leaning in and pressing their mouths together. Sam collapsed against Dean with a needy moan as Dean pushed into Sam’s mouth greedily. Sam was left dizzy, off kilter, by the time Dean moved away. “And if you need that,” Dean rasped breathlessly, “then I’m down for it. And if you don’t, I’ll find a way to be okay with that too. But they are not. Going. To push. Us. Apart. I am done with that. Are you?”

Dean’s tone was a challenge, and the child inside was desperate to rise to it – the desire to impress his older brother, to compete despite the odds in Dean’s favor, it was an ingrained need. Sam closed his eyes, imagined trying to gather all of the frayed pieces of his psyche that Lucifer had left him with, and somehow put them back together. It was overwhelming. He wasn’t sure he could. But maybe… if Dean was really willing to stand by him… he focused on his anger, his indignation over how he’d been used and manipulated his whole fucking life, and he thought maybe he found a spark. “Fuck,” he breathed. He opened his eyes and looked at Dean. “I’m not okay.”

“I know.” Dean laughed, “If you think I am, though, you aren’t as bright as you think you are.”

Sam managed a small, answering snort. It wasn‘t much, but it was a start.

“Good,” Dean grinned, pushing Sam away gently. “I don’t know about you, but I think maybe having a confrontation with Bobby in nothing more than our birthday suits could be a little awkward. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten to break the news.”


	12. Part Eleven

**Part Eleven**

They’d had it out with Bobby, and, after a long battle, the man had grudgingly agreed to leave his house. The plan was to take off before nightfall. Dean couldn’t deny his defensive irritation on his brother’s behalf. Sam had been jumpy, edgy, since he’d woken up, and it had only gotten worse during their argument with Bobby. Sam seemed to think that they should leave right away, but he’d looked like he was about to drop by the time Bobby finally conceded the point. The man was a fucking genius. He couldn’t see that his stubbornness was affecting Sam?

And then Sam had looked at Dean stupidly when Dean had ordered him back to bed. There wasn’t a hint of defiance in his eyes, just complete and utter exhaustion. For a moment, it had looked like Sam had wanted to protest, but he’d merely turned and trudged listlessly up the stairs. Dean had followed Sam up, but Sam had simply fallen into his bed as soon as he’d walked into the room, and was out equally as fast.

There wasn’t much to do; Dean was done throwing their stuff into bags in less than five minutes, and then he’d just stood there in the middle of the room, watching Sam sleep. Sam slept fitfully, small whimpers and moans escaping every so often, and while he’d certainly had nightmares before Ruby, he’d never really shown them. Not like this.

This felt… unnatural, wrong.  Sam was emo on the best of days, but his brother was usually pretty damn stoic about it. Dean pushed his fears down. Sam had seemed okay when they’d talked earlier. This was just another dream. Sam would get over them eventually.

Suddenly tired himself, he sat down on the small bed next to his brother. It was a tight fit for both of them – Sam’s arm was pressed against Dean’s lower back where he perched on the edge of the bed, warm and slightly sweaty. Dean listed to the side, and his head hit the pillow a moment later. 

He should feel awkward about sharing a twin-sized bed with his little brother. Hell, he should feel _awkward_ about the fact that he’d kissed Sam earlier. He knew this. Well, at least, intellectually he knew it. His time in hell had left his instincts a little deadened to the concepts of right and wrong, but he hadn’t forgotten the rules. People aren’t supposed to want to fuck their brothers. …and he didn’t, not really… but he couldn’t deny that being so close to Sam had filled something, something that he’d been missing in his soul, missing so long that he hadn’t even realized the absence.

His eyes were burning, and he jabbed his fingers into them angrily. He’d resisted Cas’ idea, at first, not because the idea of sex with Sam repulsed him, not like it might have 40 years ago, but because he sure as fuck hadn’t wanted to do the deed while Sam was so completely screwed up by whatever Lucifer had done to him.

“Dean…”

The quiet, forlorn whimper froze Dean’s heart in his chest. _Shit_. It was impossible to know why Sam had said his name, but Dean couldn’t quite keep himself from thinking the worst. He sat up slowly, guilt driving him to turn and peer closely at Sam’s face in an effort to determine if it was his presence that was upsetting his brother.

“Dean!”

Sam started shaking, silent tears sneaking out from under his closed lids, his head thrashing in denial, and there was suddenly no question that it was not Dean that was hurting Sam in the dream. Dean crumpled over Sam’s sleeping form, pulling Sam into his arms in a tight embrace. “Shhh,” he whispered, trying his best to sound soothing instead of frantic. “Shhh…”

“Dean!!!” Sam screamed out.

It sounded like Sam’s heart was being ripped out of his chest, and Dean rocked him roughly, more than half hoping it would wake Sam up despite his need for sleep. “Shhh, Sam. It’s okay…” Dean murmured.

Sam didn’t listen to Dean’s unvoiced hope, however. His sobs increased – hopeless anguished cries of, “Dean, Dean…No. No.”

“Sam, I’m here. I’m right here.”

Sam’s face abruptly morphed into a rictus of anger and pain, and he started thrashing blindly, throwing frantic punches that would have probably hurt if he’d been alert enough to land them. Dean grappled Sam, forced to use a full body pin to keep Sam from hurting either one of them. “I’m here. Please wake up,” Dean begged, “God, Sam, please wake up…”

Sam went still in Dean’s arms, and for some reason, that was even more terrifying than Sam’s angry tears had been.

“YES!” Sam suddenly screamed, loud and angry enough to wake the dead. Sam’s eyes snapped open, seeing nothing, and he arched up under Dean, every muscle in his body rigid with tension.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice was sharp, maybe too sharp, but at least it finally seemed to do something. Sam collapsed down, his long gorilla arms wrapping securely around Dean as he curled himself close against Dean’s body like he was never going to let Dean go. 

His eyes fluttered closed again, and his breathing slowly evened out as he relaxed into Dean’s embrace.

“Good, Sammy, that’s good. I’m right here. I’m not leaving.” Dean held Sam carefully, soothing a hand through his hair over and over again, hoping against desperate hope for Sam to simply fall back into a dreamless sleep. For once, somebody seemed to listen to his prayer.

~o0O0o~

“Samuel… time to wake up, now.”

Sam wakes up with a muffled scream. “No… no…” he pleads to no one in particular, the words helplessly whispered. It’s over. It’s supposed to be _over_.

“Shhh…” Nick soothes. “Did you really think you could win so easily?” He laughs derisively. “You really are stupid.”

Sam opens his eyes, and Bobby’s room swims into view through his tired eyes. _No._ No, this isn’t…

Lucifer grabs him by the hair and drags him roughly over to the bed, pushing him forward to sprawl over the edge. Sam tries to jerk back, but Lucifer grips his neck, and pushes his head face down into the mattress. He can’t breathe through the heavy layers of blankets and thick mattress fabric, and he flails his arms and legs wildly to try to push Lucifer away, but it has no effect. His world narrows down to gasping in warm, stuffy air through the material and into his starving lungs, a struggle that gets increasingly harder as his despairing tears leave the material damp.

Lucifer reaches around and grabs his dick, holding it tightly, and Sam realizes he’s already hard and aching. Something sharp prods at the tip, and Sam rears back into Lucifer’s arms as, once more, the painful burn of the rod sinks into him, slides slowly deeper, leaving him more violated than anal penetration ever has. His dick aches with the flame that’s licking up inside of him. Suddenly, he has to pee so bad it feels like he’s going to burst, but there’s nothing he can do about it now; even his ability to deal with his own bodily functions has been stolen from him.

The rod bottoms out. Lucifer rubs over the tip of his dick, using the small ball at the end to spin the metal around and around. He can feel it moving against his insides as he ineffectively shrinks back, until his ass is grinding against Lucifer’s dick. Lucifer chuckles cruelly and whispers, “You ready for the rest of it?” Without waiting for an answer, he roughly shoves the piercing through the side of Sam’s dick and the ring is snapped closed. The pain can’t get much worse, Sam thinks hopelessly, but then Lucifer grabs his testicles and _twists_.

Sam screams, praying for Dean, for Cas, for anyone to come save him. He doesn’t deserve this; no one does.

“You need to be punished, child,” Lucifer says coldly, “for what you tried to do. And I think you no longer have any need for these.”

Lucifer twists harder, pulling down at the same time, and he can feel the moment the skin splits.

He screams again, loud enough shred his vocal cords.

“Sam!” Dean yells, slamming the door open. Sam throws a fearful look towards the door – No, he hadn’t meant it, not really. _Dean’s not supposed to be here_.

“No!” Sam screams again. “No, please, Dean. Get out of here!”

Lucifer pushes Sam to the ground, and Sam’s legs give out, refuse to move at all beyond the tremors jerking through them as Lucifer crowds Dean against the wall.

“Say yes and this all stops, Sam,” Lucifer growls.

“Sam, please!” Dean yells desperately.

Lucifer spins Dean around and slams him face first into the wall, and Dean’s naked, his ass on display as Lucifer pushes a couple of fingers deep inside.

“Say yes.” Lucifer orders.

Sam can’t talk, can’t even whisper as he lays on the floor, watching his brother’s violation. All four fingers are inside of Dean now, and blood is already dripping from his hole. Dean’s pleading already, “Sam, please! Don’t let him do this. You can’t let him do this to me!”

“For the last time, Sam. Say yes,” Lucifer adds coldly, his voice easily sounding over Dean’s helpless stream of words.

Lucifer squeezes his thumb inside along with his fingers. His entire hand pushes in, up Dean’s ass, buried to the wrist. Dean goes incoherent, his frantic entreaties devolving into wounded screams and sobs.

It’s on the tip of Sam’s tongue to say yes. He can’t bear to watch this anymore. He opens his mouth to say it.

“Too late,” Lucifer whispers. He reaches out, and the sound of Dean’s neck snapping echoes around the room. Lucifer yanks his hand free and tosses Dean’s limp body to the floor in front of the bedroom door. Sam screams, his heart ripped from his body as he crawls forward to reach his brother’s body.

“Dean!” he sobs.

Lucifer grabs him by the hair again and flings him back against the far wall, laughing when Sam again tries to crawl forward to reach his brother, lets him get halfway there before Lucifer picks him up and flings him back once more.

“Dean!” It’s the only word he has left, and he can’t give up the fight, even though Lucifer’s laughter is turning manic, clown-like.

“Shhh, Sam. It’s okay!”

“Dean,” he begs, “Dean…” he collapses to the floor, sobbing out his anguish. His brother can’t be dead. He can’t be.

“Sam, I’m here. I’m right here.”

Lucifer’s words stab at his heart. He doesn’t want the monster here. Not at Bobby’s. Not when they were supposed to be safe. He launches himself at the devil, he knows he can’t win, but he’s intent only on hurting, on maiming. Lucifer wards Sam off easily, wraps his arms around Sam, pinning him against his chest as he sits them together on the bed.

“I’m here. Please, wake up. God, Sam, please, wake up…”

Lucifer’s rocking him back and forth, as if he’s trying to comfort, and the very idea is ridiculous, but Dean’s blank eyes are still staring up at him accusingly, and there’s nothing Sam can do.

“Dean,” he whispers mournfully. An inferno of white hot rage suddenly tears through him so hard he has to yell it out or it’s going to take him out. He’s done. There’s nothing left for him anymore. Everything is pain and suffering. He’s never been allowed to be happy, has sacrificed everything and for what? The fucking world has never done anything to deserve his protection. It doesn’t matter what happens, because there’s nothing left to care about anymore. _Nothing_.

“ _ **YES!**_ ” he screams his assent with hate and fury. “Make it end, make it _all_ end!”

“Sam!” Dean’s voice was sharp, and he was wrapped around Sam like he was never going to let him go. Sam collapsed into his brother’s arms, not sure what the tears falling ceaselessly down his face were about: relief, grief, anger… all his emotions had bleed together in a tangled mess, and all he really cared about was the fact that Dean was holding him, and he was never going to have to watch his brother leave again.

His eyes fell closed, his breathing leveling out slowly as he relaxed into the embrace.

“Good, Sammy, that’s good. I’m right here. I’m not leaving.” Dean was holding him carefully, carding a hand through his hair again and again – a ceaseless offer of comfort that Sam couldn’t be anything but grateful for. He let himself be pulled into the quiet peace. His thoughts scattered, and he slept.

~o0O0o~

Dean was too busy watching his brother sleep to get any for himself, but he wasn’t in anywhere near as rough shape as Sam was, so it didn’t matter that much. He hadn’t exactly missed the weight loss, the paleness, the dark smudges under Sam’s eyes, eyes that never smiled anymore, but he hadn’t really acknowledged the problem either. He’d assumed it was Sam’s deserved penance for not listening to Dean and starting the apocalypse, and then later, he’d assumed it was the demon blood again, something Sam was doing to himself despite every objection Dean had been able to raise.

He’d let himself be so fucking wounded by the things Sam had done after he went to hell for the little shit… that he’d never even entertained the notion that something else could be causing Sam to look like he was fading away.

He struggled to pull up memories of his time before hell. Cas had distanced Dean’s memories of that place when he’d pulled Dean out, and time had faded everything else, leaving his entire past muted, colorless. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. He knew it was a weakness he couldn’t afford to show.

Sam had laughed sometimes though, before Dean had made his deal, laughed even more when he was younger, before he’d run away to Stanford, before he’d hit puberty. That inherent happiness had been beaten out of him, beaten out of them both, really, until neither one of them could focus on anything good.

If it was the last thing he did, he needed to find a way to put that smile back on Sam’s face. Otherwise, neither one of them had anything left to fight for.

Sam twitched, let out a small whimper, and Dean couldn’t help the tension and worry that forced his arms tighter around his brother. He blinked back the burning wetness in his eyes. Sam needed him to be strong. Somehow, Dean was going to have to find a way to be what Sam needed again. Not because Sam was weak or because he was too self-involved to see what he was doing to Dean, but because every evil thing in the universe seemed to be hell-bent on forcing them into pre-ordained roles.

They’d both been manipulated until they couldn’t see anything clearly anymore. That ended. Now.

It looked like Sam was slowly relaxing, and Dean released the breath he’d been holding. Sam was slipping back into a deeper, more restful sleep. Thank God.

Dean’s heart almost leapt out of his chest when Sam suddenly jerked himself backwards, pulling himself forcefully from Dean’s hold.

“Sam?” Dean muttered, a vague, uneasy discomfort crawling through his stomach. He reached out, intending to put a hand on Sam’s arm.

The response was immediate. Panic filled Sam’s widening eyes and he scrambled backwards, almost instantly hitting the side of the small bed and tumbling off backwards to land in a tangled mess on the floor.

Dean leaned forward to look over the edge at Sam, not sure if it would be better to offer a hand or simply leave the bedroom to give Sam some space.

Avoidance wasn’t going to get rid of the elephant in the room, though. “God, Sam, please don’t keep pushing me away like this. We…” Dean took in a deep, hitching breath. “We need to talk.”

“I said yes…How could I say yes?” Sam muttered. He was shaking and sweaty, his eyes wide and far away, not quite seeing Dean.

Fear crawled up Dean’s spine as he tried to make sense of Sam’s words. “What?” Dean replied in confusion.

Sam’s eyes snapped to Dean’s at the question, his breaths speeding up even more, until Dean was starting to think Sam was going to hyperventilate. “I take it back. Please, I… I take it back…” Sam was frantic, his tone pleading, his words a desperate spill from his lips as he crawled back into the corner of the room and covered his head with his arms, hiding his face. “I’m sorry… Oh, God, I take it back… please… I take it back…”

Dean stared at his usually stoic younger brother who seemed to be literally falling apart, and he was only barely able to keep the panicked tears inside his fucking head. He cautiously moved off the bed and gripped Sam’s arms, gently pulling them down before ducking to try and catch Sam’s gaze. “Sam, calm down, please. You… you gotta tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if you keep shutting me out.”

“You aren’t Dean,” Sam spat, rage twisting his features and voice between one heartbeat and the next. “Get the hell away from me! Better I burn in hell than this...”

“What? Sam, I…” _Dream_ Sam was reacting to something he had dreamed, that’s all. Sam clearly thought it wasn’t though – he thought he’d said yes to Lucifer for real. The anguish in Sam’s eyes was an arrow through Dean’s soul. “Sam, it was a dream, okay? Whatever you think happened, it was just a dream.”

“No, I…”

Dean cut Sam’s protest off, not even caring to hear what it was. “No, no, Sam. You didn’t,” Dean said forcefully. “We blocked him, remember? Lucifer’s not here to say yes _to_. It’s okay, it was just a dream.”

Dean grew a little braver, put both of his hands on Sam’s shoulders and gently rubbed them over the thin t-shirt that Sam had been sleeping in. He could feel the fearful tremors shaking through Sam’s heavy frame easing back slightly as he looked at Dean. Dean’s gut twisted in on itself – Sam’s eyes were liquid pools of terror. For all of Sam’s emo tendencies, he was the strongest man Dean knew. This was…

“It’s not…” Sam whispered in a small, little-boy voice. “If… Why is he still finding me when I sleep, then?” 

Dean slowly pulled Sam close, worried Sam might push him away at any moment, but the shaking was increasing again, turning almost violent, and Dean couldn’t keep his distance any more than he could stop breathing.

“Shhh…” he muttered, pressing his lips to the top of Sam’s head. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. God, I’m so… I know I let you down, okay? I wrecked everything, but… you gotta let me fix this. It was just a nightmare. That’s all. Just a nightmare.”

Sam crumpled forward into Dean’s embrace, huddling into Dean’s arms like he’d never done, even as a child. It was like holding a stranger, and Dean could barely hold back his rage – just another thing the monsters had taken from him… from them. They stayed knotted together on the floor for a while, Sam crying in Dean’s arms, holding on like he was afraid Dean would disappear. Shame gradually added itself to the knot of emotions twisting in his stomach – he’d given Sam so much shit for running away, and then he’d turned around and done exactly the same thing. 

Sam’s tears gradually faded, but Dean wasn’t allowed any time to feel relief. Sam started tensing up, his breathing matching pace, almost as soon as his drying tears registered. His agitation sucked any last bits of lingering comfort from the room.

“How do I know what’s…” Sam started to choke out, and then his voice abruptly cut out and his eyes widened with terror. He started scrambling out of Dean’s arms, raw panic etched into every line of his body.

Desperate to go back to the calm they’d been sharing only moments before, Dean clutched at his brother, trying to pull him back into his arms. “Sam…”

“No!” Sam shouted. He swung, catching Dean square on his chin, slamming him to the floor. Sam was up and running before Dean had a chance to recover, a chance to pull his brother back.

He stumbled as quickly as he could to his feet and dashed out into the hallway. Sam was standing at the head of the stairs, back to Dean, looking frantically back and forth between the front door at the bottom and the bathroom, which… _What the fuck?_ Dean cautiously approached Sam, and placed a soft hand against Sam’s back.

Sam whirled around, at the same time stepping back away from Dean, and suddenly he was tumbling backwards down the stairs. At least Sam knew how to fall so that he didn’t break anything, but Sam was panicked enough that Dean couldn’t keep the fear from twisting through his gut anyway.

“Sammy?” Sam’s name ripped from Dean’s throat as he dashed down the stairs after Sam. Dean hit the bottom and dropped to his knees to run anxious hands over his brother, checking for injuries. Sam didn’t resist, didn’t pull or flinch way, only looked up at Dean dazedly. 

“That’d make twice in one week. He okay?” Bobby asked gruffly, startling them both. Tension seized Sam’s muscles once more, and Dean couldn’t spare even a second to look back and acknowledge Bobby’s presence.

“He… he freaked out on me, Bobby,” Dean moaned helplessly, praying for Bobby to tell him what to do, to tell him how to fix this. Sam looked so young, so lost, and this time Dean couldn’t stop the fearful tears from tracking down his face.   
    
Nothing felt seriously wrong. Sam was leaning into Dean’s touch, and Dean couldn’t help pulling Sam up to sitting so he could wrap his arms around Sam’s shaking shoulders. Sam leaned back a little, his eyes finally tracking on Dean’s, but still lost, still broken. Then he stretched up and pressed his mouth to Dean’s, licking over Dean’s lips in a silent plea to be let inside. 

Dean stiffened, his awareness of Bobby, standing there, watching them, too keen to do otherwise. He couldn’t… he wanted to… but, he couldn’t. He kept his mouth tightly shut. Sam whimpered in frustration, his attempts not abating in the slightest. 

“Well, shit.” Bobby muttered.

Dean had no idea what to do, torn between backing away, like he knew Bobby expected, and just giving in to Sam’s need. 

Sam seemed to have no such qualms. He cupped the back of Dean’s head and pushed his tongue against Dean’s lips more forcefully. Dean parted for him with a wounded sound, responding in spite of himself, letting Sam win.

They lost themselves in the kiss for few precious moments, blocking out the world and all the evil it contained. Dean couldn’t let it continue. With a soft sigh, he tenderly put a hand against Sam’s cheek and pushed him back, whispering gently, “Sam, we… I can’t… You have to stop, okay?”

“Dean,” Bobby cleared his throat uncomfortably, “What…”

“Leave it alone, Bobby,” Dean growled, anger snaking through his body. Bobby had no right to judge. No one had a right to do that, not to them. “Why don’t you give us… you know what, never mind, we’re gonna go get some air. Come on, Sam.”

Dean stood abruptly and grabbed Sam’s shirt to haul him up as well. Sam moaned, his body obviously stiff, and Dean cursed himself for forgetting that Sam was likely sore from his fall. It didn’t stop his fierce desire to be outside, though. 

Sam was staring dumbly at the stairs, so Dean opened the door and gripped Sam’s shoulders to steer him out. The air was brisk against his skin. It smelled cool and clean, and he dragged Sam out into the maze of cars.

Dean kept moving Sam forward until they were as lost as they could be in the familiar terrain. Finally stopping when it felt like they were truly alone, he turned and faced his brother. Sam looked… _shit_ , he didn’t know how to fix this. He opened his mouth to say something, but he had no idea what so he closed it just as fast. He probably looked like a drowning fish.

Sam took a hesitant step back, then another. He was visibly shaking again. Dean didn’t know what the hell to do. Lucifer was gone, at least for now. There was nothing left to kill. Whatever Sam was going through, it was clearly too bad to just shove down and pretend away. He wondered if this is what he would have looked like, if Cas hadn’t made his memories so murky.

“What… I don’t… Is this real? How do I know what’s real?” Sam stammered out.

“Lucifer’s gone, Sam. I swear. He’s not going to find us again until we’re ready.”

“I don’t…” Sam cut his words off, looking pole-axed, and suddenly he slipped his shirt off and through it to the ground absently, his hands immediately going to the skin of his chest to twist and pull roughly over the skin.

“Sam…” Dean started, confused, “What the hell…”

“How could…” Sam scraped his fingers across his chest, and his nails left angry red welts across his skin. “It felt so real…” His hand dipped lower, catching at the edge of his low-slung sweat-pants and boxers.

Dean grabbed Sam’s hand, stopping him from pulling his clothes any further down.

Sam’s gaze snapped to Dean’s, his eyes hazy with fear. “Are you real, Dean?” he whispered. “God, I… How do I know what’s real?”

Dean looked away, unable to bear the pain and despair that seemed to be curling through Sam’s entire being.

“I’m real,” he muttered, knowing word’s couldn’t possibly be enough to fix anything, but unable to come up with anything else. “Sam,” he said quietly, forcing himself to reconnect, looking imploringly into his brother’s eyes. “You gotta talk to me, man. What the hell did Lucifer do to you?”

Sam let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Um, nothing?” The laughter rode the words, but Sam’s voice cracked at the end, and Dean could see Sam’s eyes distancing as he withdrew back into himself again.

“Sam!” he said sharply, giving Sam’s shoulders a small shake. “It wasn’t nothing. I saw some of the damage, man. Just because you’re healed, it doesn’t mean that nothing happened. This is the voice of experience talking here, right?”

Sam’s gaze sharpened, taking in Dean’s words before he whispered, “But nothing did happen; it was all in my head, and now it’s over, except… I still had another dream today, at least, I think it was a dream, but what if it wasn’t? What if I really… and then what if this isn’t real? What if you’re just what Lucifer thinks I want? He bends and he twists and I can’t…” Sam’s frantic rambling trailed off and he started to sink slowly to the ground.

Dean took a small risk and grabbed Sam’s arms, stopping his brother’s decent to wrap himself protectively around his brother in a full body hug. Sam wrapped around Dean just as tightly and buried his head against Dean’s shoulder, the terror and despair that shown so clearly in his eyes driving matching tremors through his body. Dean abandoned himself to the embrace, and despite Sam’s pain, he felt more human than he had in a long, long time.

Dean felt the tension creeping gradually back into Sam’s back and shoulders. He clung tighter, willing his brother to relax again, to linger in their mutual comfort for just a little while longer. They both needed it. He could admit that in his thoughts where no one else could overhear.

Sam suddenly shoved Dean away angrily, stumbling backwards until he ran into one of the cars. “What the hell, Dean? Fuck, this… this isn’t us… You don’t have to keep babying me. I’m fine!” he shouted, as if enough volume would make the protest so. Angrily, he snatched up his shirt, fumbling it back on while sulking back to the house.

Dean watched his brother walk away helplessly. He had no fucking clue what to do.

~o0O0o~

Dean opened heavy lids to peer at the ancient alarm clock – complete with bells, seriously – that was sitting next to the bed. The stupid hands were luminescent, but he couldn’t see the numbers in the dark so the clock wasn’t much help to his sleep addled brain. It was still the middle of the night though, obviously, and Sam’s heavy breathing was what had woken him up. If it was a sex dream, that’d be one thing, but he was pretty sure that sounded more like work-out panting, which, what the hell time was it again?

They’d gotten a late start from Bobby’s the day before, and Dean had driven through the night and then all the way through the next day. They’d both been exhausted when they’d finally gotten into the room. He groaned and rolled over, mumbled a questioning, “Sammy?”

There was no answer, so he flung out a hand and groped around until he found the lamp switch and turned it on. Ow! He moaned again, his eyes complaining loudly about the sudden light.

Sam’s rhythmic breaths didn’t falter. Suddenly alarmed, Dean sat up to peer at his brother, who was doing crunches on the floor in a slow, steady pace. He was covered in sweat; he’d clearly been at it for a while.

“Sam?” he asked again. Still nothing. Sam seemed zoned out, and it was more than a little disturbing. Dean kicked his blankets off and moved over to crouch next to Sam, who didn’t react to his presence in the slightest. He reached out and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder to stop him. That got a reaction. Sam jerked from his grasp, practically doing a backwards summersault to get to the farthest wall.

Dean followed, moving over slowly until he was close enough to touch, but he held off. Sam was breathing hard, far harder than he had been when he was working out.

“Hey,” Dean murmured, trying to keep his voice casual, “You went to sleep the same time I did. How come you aren’t still asleep?”

Sam’s eyes slowly traced to Dean’s wide and filled with terror. Dean knew that look – he’d worn it far too many times himself. “Sam?” he prodded.

“Ne… never went to sleep,” his brother gasped out.

Now that he had Sam’s attention, he took a risk and placed his hands on either side of Sam’s face pulling him a little closer. This time, Sam didn’t flinch away, but he was shaking like a leaf under Dean’s hands. “Hey, breathe with me. You gotta calm down or you’re gonna pass out, which is not the best way to get a well rested morning.” Dean breathed in, deep and slow, and was gratified when Sam actually humored him and went along with it.

They sat like that for a while, getting lost in the almost hypnotic exchange of air, and Sam finally started to relax. Dean pulled Sam in and rested his head on Dean’s chest, and Dean couldn’t help but feel a little grateful for the dark.

“You didn’t tell me you weren’t ready to hit the hay, dude. I would’ve stayed up. They were gonna show Women in Cages tonight. We could’ve watched it together.”

Sam snorted softly, and his small acknowledgement of Dean’s attempt at humor warmed Dean’s heart.

“Talk to me, Sam. You’re better at this than I am.”

“I just… I was going to go to sleep; I was, but then… I can’t. I just… can’t.”

Dean could feel Sam’s agitation coming back, so he interrupted Sam’s stammered floundering, “Sam, what are you afraid of?”

Sam sucked in a deep breath, and the single word flowed out on his exhale, “Lucifer.”

The thump of Sam’s heart was definitely speeding up now. “Lucifer’s been blocked. He’s not coming back.”

“You don’t… There’s no…”

Dean didn’t allow himself time to think. He pulled Sam up and pressed his lips against Sam’s. Licking against the lower one, nipping and teasing in an attempt to get Sam to let him in.

Sam let out a low whimper, his hands fisting into the thin material of Dean’s t-shirt, and he opened with a low, needful moan. Dean snaked his tongue inside to run along the inside of Sam’s lower lip, letting the tangy taste of Sam explode over his tongue. Sam surged against him, thrusting his own tongue into Dean’s mouth to tickle over the roof and lick over his teeth, a slow exploration that was pulling Dean’s dick to instant attention. He pulled back, his eyes lingering on the small glint of saliva on Sam’s lips, before hungrily covering Sam’s mouth with his own and biting down possessively.

He needed more.

Trailing off to the side, Dean licked over Sam’s stubble covered chin. Sam tasted like salt, and Dean couldn’t help biting down hard on the skin, pulling it into his mouth with a hard pull that would likely leave a bruise. His dick was definitely on board with that plan, and Dean let the prickly flesh go and moved down an inch to do it again. Sam arched against him while Dean worked his way down Sam’s chin to his neck, where the skin softened, pliable enough to suck a much larger area into Dean’s mouth. He laved over the skin, let it go and then did it again and again, until there was no question that Sam would be sporting his mark for days...

And then he pulled back. He couldn’t let this go any further, couldn’t risk Sam coming to his senses in a few days or a month or a year and end up hating Dean for taking advantage of him when he was weak. They were both breathing heavily now, Sam’s lids heavy, his eyes dark and glittering with lust. “Dean?” he moaned, the question clear.

“Cas said,” Dean huffed, “that I needed to refresh my claim. That’s… that’s done. Lucifer’s blocked now, Sam. You can go to sleep.”

Sam stared at Dean for a minute, the lust falling away to be replaced by fatigue. “Yeah, okay,” he finally responded. Dean helped Sam up and moved him over to the bed, and Sam fell onto it.

Dean sat on the opposite bed, unable to take his eyes off his brother.

“Dean?” Sam whispered.

“Yeah?” Dean answered quietly into the dark.

“Can you… sleep over here?”

Dean knew he should say no, but he couldn’t stop himself from immediately getting up and moving silently to the bed. He lay down and Sam immediately curled up against him.

They were both out within moments.


	13. Part Twelve

**Part Twelve**

“We’re here.”

Sam startled awake at Dean’s sudden words, groaning when his neck twinged from the awkward angle he’d been maintaining against the Impala’s window. He looked around, and drew in a sharp breath at the panoramic view in front of them.

Dean had gotten them close enough to the edge of canyon that it looked like they were hanging in space, and Sam straightened a little just to confirm it wasn’t true. A foot or two of ground was all that separated them from a drop to their deaths that would probably take long enough that they could have a conversation, because the Grand Canyon was breathtakingly, mind-blowingly huge.

He had no idea when Dean had decided to come here; Dean hadn’t said anything about it.

They sat in silence for a while… well, almost silence. The Impala’s engine was still running, and there was a surprising amount of wildlife sounds considering the impression of emptiness the canyon gave. Sam didn’t know why they were there, but the sheer vastness was enough to lose himself in. He relaxed back, letting the calm fill his thoughts.

The car lurched forward slightly when Dean threw her into drive from park, and Sam straightened, looking at Dean in confusion.

“What do you say, Sammy?” Dean asked quietly. “We could do a Thelma and Louise. Bet it would be a total rush.”

“Dean?” Sam questioned back, fear for his brother filling him like it hadn’t in ages. Sam swallowed convulsively; the look on Dean’s face was of stony determination, and it occurred to Sam that, despite his flippant words, Dean might actually be serious about driving them to their death.

Dean eased his foot ever so slightly off the brake, and the car crunched forward an inch or two. Sam’s hand snapped out, grabbing Dean’s shoulder in a tight grip. “Dean?! What the hell are you doing?”

“Ending this.”

The raspy response tore through Sam’s heart like an arrow. “What? Dean, it… Lucifer would just bring me back. This wouldn’t be an end, at least not for me, and I nee…”

“That’s only if Lucifer could find you,” Dean interrupted dully. “There’d be so little left of us I’m not sure he could. I don’t think either of them could.” Dean eased off the brake again, eating away another bit of the scant earth separating them from certain death, sending Sam’s heart into his throat before Dean halted the progress.

“Dean, stop!” Sam yelled, beginning to panic, beginning to believe Dean really was completely serious about this. “We don’t know for sure that you’d end up someplace good, and we can’t just sit back and let the apocalypse happen just because…”

“We can’t?” Dean growled back, finally turning to look at Sam. “I thought that was precisely what we’ve been doing?”

“What?”

“We’ve been driving around aimlessly for weeks now, curling up together in random motels at night only to repeat ourselves again the next day, and you haven’t said anything. We haven’t talked about anything. We don’t have time for you to get over what Lucifer did to you in a leisurely fashion, Sammy. You need to man-up and get over yourself…”

“You’re an ass,” Sam interrupted, feeling the sting of betrayal in his gut.

Dean didn’t even pause in his speech, “…so we can fight the sons of bitches trying to destroy the world. ‘Cause if we aren’t going to do that then I’m sick of wandering around miserably. At least when I was in hell I could lose myself in the blood and gore and other-peoples-pain. There isn’t a point in staying here and wallowing in our own shit if we’re just going to let the end come without a fight.”

“That’s not my plan, Dean, but you’ve gotta give…”

“Yeah?” Dean threw the car back into park and turned to look at Sam fully. “So what is your plan, ‘cause you sure as shit haven’t let me in on it!”

Taken aback, Sam looked at Dean blankly and the misery that he’d forgotten just for a moment was pouring back in as fast as it had been forgotten. “I don’t know,” he whispered hopelessly.

“Fuck it then.” Dean slammed out of the car, moving quickly over to stand right at the edge of the cliff.

Sam was scrambling out of the car almost as fast, coming up short a couple of feet from Dean, his heart rate picking up speed at the realization that one false move on his part could send Dean hurtling to his death.

“Dean, please, man. Step back from the edge. You’re scaring me.”

“I remember hell.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Dean snapped back. “Do you know what that means? Forty years, Sam. I’ve been dead longer than I’ve been alive.”

“I kn…”

“But do you get what that fucking _means_?” Dean interrupted, his gaze not wavering from the panoramic view. “Cas distanced the memories for me, made it possible for me to exist top-side without being bat-shit insane,” he turned then, looking steadily at Sam, “but I still remember hell far better than I remember you.”

Sam stumbled back a bit, until the car was pressing reassuringly into his back. The coldly stated words created a hot burn behind his eyes, leaving him dizzy and nauseous. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t know how to apologize for letting his brother down so completely. He didn’t have any defense for being such a colossal fuck-up. He looked at the ground, his feet, at a shrub 10 feet away, at anything except the profound betrayal that must be shining in Dean’s eyes like points of fire.

“It’s not… I never forgot about you, not exactly. But… I had this image in my head. Of you taking yourself out of the hunt, going back to school and starting a family. Of you acknowledging the sacrifices that Dad and I made for you, and living the perfect life because of them. I clung to the fact that you loved me enough to do what I’d asked you to do. I trusted you.

“But when I came back, fuck, you weren’t the guy I remembered sacrificing myself for. You lied, you kept secrets, you were with her, trusting her to have your back in every way you didn’t trust me. What was I supposed to do with that, Sammy? It was like I’d made that sacrifice for a ghost, because the brother I thought I remembered turned out to be complete fiction.”

“God, Dean, I never meant to hurt you…”

Dean stepped right up into Sam’s space, not stopping until their faces were mere inches apart, and spit out, “But you did.”

Sam shoved Dean backwards, needing distance as he yelled back, “I was trying, Dean!” Anger curled in his stomach like smoke, dancing slowly upwards, “I know I wasn’t worth the sacrifice you made, but shit, I was trying to prove I was worth something!”

“And are you, Sam? Are you worth the sacrifice I made?” Dean yelled back.

“No! I never was! Damn it, Dean, I never asked you to make that sacrifice for me, and I’m never, never going to live up to it.”

Dean’s fist crashed into Sam’s face before he even saw it coming, sending him sprawling, igniting a fire in his cheek bone that left him dizzy. He was on his feet a moment later anyway, cold fury launching him against Dean hard enough to crash them both to the ground. They rolled together a couple of feet before coming to a stop in a tangle of limbs. Dean was faster to react, freeing a fist and crashing it against Sam’s face once more. This time, Sam was ready for it, and sent his own fist flying in return.

“Fuck you, Dean! Fuck you for leaving me alone! I’m not the only one who let somebody down!” A second punch connected with Dean’s face as Sam yelled, unable to think, almost unable to breathe past his fury. “I fucking tried, but I was never strong enough to make it without you!”

Tears were blurring Sam’s vision, and Dean took advantage, rolling them over so he was on top, and slamming Sam’s hands above his head, taking advantage of his weight to keep Sam pinned.

Dean writhed against Sam, just once, but it was enough for Sam to realize… He gasped, a sharp, open-mouthed breath of surprise; Dean was fully hard, his dick an almost painful press of hard skin between them.

There was no time to process that as Dean dove down, crashing their mouths together hard, somehow still more angry than lustful. He covered Sam’s mouth with his own and scraped his teeth across Sam’s lips, setting off a burn that Sam couldn’t deny made his dick sit up and take notice. The small nips and bites Dean pressed into his lips were harsh, hard enough to cut, hard enough to make him bleed.

Sam thrust his hips up as the sharp, metallic taste flowed over his tongue. He needed more contact, needed to taste Dean and know that he was real, just needed _more_. There was no way Sam could force himself to push his brother away – he wanted this more than he’d ever wanted anything.

Dean gradually relaxed down against Sam’s body as they lost themselves in each other, twining their legs together as he continued to lick into Sam’s mouth hungrily. Sam couldn’t help surging upwards to meet Dean’s tongue with his own, drinking in Dean’s intoxicating taste. A low, needy whimper escaped from Sam as he pulsed his hips upwards against Dean’s.

Too many clothes. Too much… He needed…

A demanding whine escaped from Sam, and Dean responded by sliding his hands down Sam’s arms with a groan, lacing them through Sam’s hair in an impossible attempt to pull their mouths even closer. Sam’s arms were finally free and he took advantage, reaching down to grab the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt. He pulled it up around Dean’s armpits, then did the same to his own, groaning loudly at the slip slide of sweat-damp skin that resulted.

Still, Sam needed more. Dean was continuing to kiss him hungrily, and Sam let him plunder his mouth as he snaked a hand between their bodies to struggle Dean’s jeans open. When Dean’s dick finally sprang free, stiff and proud, Sam grabbed the silky skin, gripping it firmly before giving it a hard, firm tug. Dean stilled against Sam, a long, low moan issuing from his throat.

Suddenly, Dean threw himself backwards, breaking their contact.

Fear clenched Sam’s stomach fiercely. Dean was… _Fuck!_ Dean didn’t want this. Sam had gone too far, misread all the signs…

Dean started stripping his clothes off clumsily, frantically, tossing them to the side and muttering for Sam to do the same. Sam wanted… but he couldn’t… Sam couldn’t move, frozen in place by too many conflicting emotions to even begin to process.

Dean didn’t let Sam’s lack of response deter him. As soon as he was completely nude, he grabbed Sam’s clothing and pulling it off as well. Sam couldn’t struggle against Dean’s desire anymore than he could push Dean away.

Between one blink and the next they were both stripped to the skin. Dean pushed Sam back down to sitting, forcing Sam’s hands to the ground behind them so that he could brace himself in a slightly leaned back position as Dean straddled Sam’s lap. The small rocks and pebbles in the dirt dug into Sam’s ass and hands, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as Dean’s passion-filled gaze met his own.

This time, only one hand wove through Sam’s hair to pull their mouths in close for a searing kiss. The other shoved between them and wrapped around both of their dicks, pressing the hard flesh together in a sinuous crush as he jacked them both.

Sam yelled, couldn’t keep the noise inside as exhilaration filled him, leaving him needy and restless. The muscles in Sam’s groin were already clenching up as Dean pumped his fist down and up, down and up, and Sam knew he wasn’t going to last long, could feel his climax almost ready to crest.

Sam tottered at the edge, almost… almost…

Dean’s hand disappeared.

“Dean?” Sam moaned out, pleading for… something, unable to think past his insatiable lust.

Saying nothing, Dean locked his gaze fiercely on Sam’s as he simply shifted slightly upward, then lined his ass up with Sam’s dick and started pushing himself down.

“Dean!” Sam huffed out, freezing in place, panic filling him. “You aren’t, you can’t…”

“I can take it, Sam, Just, let me…” Dean’s voice was cracking, his hitching breaths sounding pained as he continued to sink down.

“Dean, fuck, you can’t… fuck, stop!” Sam begged, fear for his brother making him struggle. He didn’t care about the burn of Dean’s tight ass scraping down his dick, the pain felt good, felt deserved, but Dean… His brother shook his head silently and continued inching down, little by little. Sam couldn’t imagine that Dean was able to do that without tearing himself up inside.

“I can… fuck… I can… I can take it!” Dean gasped out. His breaths were coming out hard and fast, interrupted by small, pained whimpers, but his face looked fierce and determined. This Dean, Sam’s Dean, was nothing like Lucifer’s façade had been. This was real, and this was… Dean was hurting himself… for Sam. Again.

His heart ached as he hastily spit into his hand and reached under his brother’s ass, smearing the saliva around the still exposed base of his dick, trying to do what he could to ease Dean’s steady push. Dean didn’t seem to notice, his eyes closed, his mouth clenched so hard the muscles in his jaw were jumping, never faltering in his continuous slide down until he yelled out a satisfied, “Fuck!” as he bottomed out.

Sam’s arms were still trapped behind him, the only thing keeping them both upright, but Dean wrapped himself around Sam like a koala bear, like he was never going to let Sam go. Dean’s mouth found his brother’s neck and he nuzzled against Sam’s skin as he jerked up and then back down, clenching hard around Sam, causing both of them to moan loudly. “Sam, I’m… shit, I’m sorry, I can’t… I’m gonna come,” Dean gasped as he pulsed up and down twice more.

Dean’s teeth found skin at the juncture of Sam’s neck, and he sucked it into his mouth sharply, biting down hard as his orgasm struck. The pain, the claim of the bite, the incredibly tight clench of Dean’s body around Sam’s dick, it all combined to pull Sam with him over the edge, making the pain-filled pleasure crest and flow over them both, crashing over them again and again until it faded away and Dean relaxed against Sam’s heaving chest.

Dean looked boneless, sated, content, and yet… Sam couldn’t hold back the rage that was suddenly filling him to bursting. He shoved Dean away, hard enough to rip Dean off of his dick and send him sliding backwards across the unforgiving ground.

Dean seemed to snap out of his daze and looked back at Sam with uncertain eyes. Unable to maintain the contact, Sam scrambled backwards, flipped himself over and slammed his right fist against the dirt. He wanted to hurt something, wanted to feel his skin slam against skin hard enough to break bones, but he didn’t want to hurt his brother. That much he knew, but there wasn’t anyone else around, and that left him with nowhere to vent his anger. He struck down again, and then again, letting the rocky dirt tear satisfying, dirty wounds into the skin of his knuckles.

His back abruptly slammed into the dirt hard enough to leave him winded. Dean was straddling him, gripping both of Sam’s fists tightly, and staring at him furiously. Sam still couldn’t meet his gaze, instead focusing on Dean’s chest. Sam let his eyes trail down to Dean’s stomach, smeared with dirt and come, down to his still semi-hard dick, down further to his legs. Sam’s come had leaked out of Dean’s ass, and a long, wet, partially smeared trail spiraled down from the back of his leg to the front. It was tinged pink.

Fuck.

The anger melted away as fast as it had come, leaving Sam hopeless and lost. His eyes burned, and he felt the wetness gather and slip over, leaving a trail of shame. Dean slammed Sam’s hands above his head, let them go with an insistent shake, and gripped the sides of Sam’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. “Don’t do this, Sammy. Don’t let that anger go. God, you… I can’t let you hurt yourself, but don’t let it go, please.”

“I’m tired of hurting you, Dean. I swear to god, I don’t mean to, but it keeps happening. No matter what I do. I’m so… I can’t keep doing that. I can’t.”

Dean’s thumbs were rubbing against Sam’s temples, sliding through the wet. “Despair is what Lucifer wants from you. Don’t you see that? He’s trying to get you to give up, so you’ll say yes.”

“No!” Sam raged, pushing at Dean, somehow unable to gather enough strength to dislodge his brother.

“Yes,” Dean hissed back. “Everything, everything they’ve done has been designed to pull us apart. I think us, together, strong, that’s what’s going to win this. That’s exactly what they don’t want. You’ve been carrying everything around on your own fucking shoulders, by yourself, for so long that it’s eating your soul away. You have to stop that. Your anger will help. I’m fucking sorry I had to push you into it, but you need it, Sam. You need it to keep yourself sane.”

Sam reached down, let his hand swipe through the come still drying on Dean’s leg and held it up accusingly. “I hurt you!”

Dean narrowed his eyes, grabbed Sam’s hand and wrapped his lips over Sam’s fingers. He licked his tongue over the digits, sensuously, lapping the tinged come away slowly, thoroughly, until Sam’s hand was clean. Continuing to suck, he pulled Sam’s hand out of his mouth with a noisy slurp. His tongue slipped out between his lips and he ran it over them obscenely, leaving them glistening in the harsh sunlight. “I did that, Sam, not you. You don’t get to claim responsibility for that one.”

“Fuck,” Sam breathed out, his oversensitive dick somehow managing to twitch with renewed interest. “Holy crap, Dean, we’re brothers. What the hell are we doing?”

Guilt flashed in Dean’s eyes and he struggled up to standing before he closed them helplessly. “Did you… it was too soon. I shouldn’t have… God, you didn’t want that… “

“Dean!” Sam interrupted anxiously, following his brother up.

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he backed away from Sam until his back hit the Impala. It looked like he looked like he was considering flight.

Sam grabbed Dean’s shoulders, pinning his brother in place and hastening to reassure, “No, it’s okay. It was… I wanted it, okay? I did. I’m okay, but…” Sam could feel himself shaking, fear filling his chest enough to make his voice breathy. “We shouldn’t… God, we’re brothers,” he repeated weakly.

Dean snorted, his guilty expression slowly fading away, turning into resolve. “The archangel of heaven and the king of hell are both after our asses. We’ve both been to hell and back because of that. I don’t think society gets to dictate what we do anymore.”

That was only a good enough excuse for one of them. “I’ve never…”

“Really?” Dean interrupted sharply, “What would you call what Lucifer did to you then, if not hell?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Dean looked at him with big-brother triumph shining from his eyes, thinking he’d won, so Sam let the words come out without censor, “I’d call it… nothing. Nothing happened. It was all in my head. All those things he did. None of it was real. There aren’t even any scars.”

“So, you’re saying that just because I don’t have any scars, that those forty years I spent in hell were all in my head? Fuck that,” Dean snapped back. “It was real, for both of us. I was there with you. I saw what he put you through. Hell, Castiel bore witness too, and he left the evidence of that right here,” Dean placed his hand over the symbol on Sam’s chest. A warm pulse surged straight from Dean’s hand to Sam’s heart. Dean paused against him, looking at his hand, and Sam wondered if his brother could feel it as well.

Not breaking the connection, Dean pushed Sam around so that Sam was against the Impala. He pressed himself against Sam in a long line, weaving their legs together. Calmly, almost tenderly – almost, because he couldn’t quite bring himself to ascribe that attribute to his wanna-be-macho brother – Dean inched down to place a series of kisses over his chest. Dean’s hand drifted lower, settling over Sam’s hip and tracing against the scar there. He slid down Sam’s body until he was crouched down at Sam’s hip level. “This one didn’t go away either,” Dean whispered. Without moving his hand, he looked up at Sam’s face. “It was real, Sam.”

Suddenly uncomfortable with their closeness, Sam blurted out, “Why?”

Dean looked confused and slowly stood back up as he answered, a little confused, “Why what?”

“Why did we… why did you want to hurt yourself?” Sam answered slowly, feeling somewhat embarrassed, “During the sex, I mean. There were other ways we could have done it, other things we could have tried, that would’ve kept you from getting hurt.”

“Forty years in hell, Sam. You learn to like things. You aren’t the only one who’s fucked up six ways from Sunday.”

“Fuck,” Sam breathed out, unable to come up with any other response to that.

“Tell me about it,” Dean deflected with a grin. The grin slipped away quickly, and Dean added more seriously, “You’re gonna be okay, Sam. We’re gonna get each other through this.”

“I know,” Sam replied automatically, not really believing it.

Dean scowled and wrapped his hands around the sides of Sam’s head, forcing Sam’s gaze to his own. “We are,” Dean insisted. “Look, a long time ago, I made you a promise.”

“What?” Sam asked, confused, not following Dean’s train of thought.

“I made you a promise. I told you that if it was the last thing I did, I was gonna save you. I… forgot that for a little while. But I remember now. I’m gonna save you, Sam.”

Sam inhaled sharply, feeling less alone than he had in a long time. When he’d made the decision to go with Ruby, he’d truly hoped, but hadn’t really believed, that eventually he and Dean would be able to fix everything Sam had done to fuck up their relationship. It was a sacrifice he’d thought at the time was worth it. He’d had no idea.

Feeling raw he pressed his forehead against Dean’s, letting his brother’s solidity and presence hold him up. “Dude,” he husked out, “We’re fucking filthy. Sex on the ground next to the Grand Canyon isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Couldn’t you have fantasized about the Pacific Ocean? At least then we’d be able to go in the water to rinse the sand off.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, and freeze our balls off while we did it. Might be your kink but it isn’t mine,” he teased back. “Why don’t I find us a motel; we can clean up and come back later. Maybe take one of those touristy tours that tourists take. This is as good a place as any to lay low. I doubt the powers of heaven and hell will think to look for us here.”

Dean pushed away from Sam, moving to pull his clothes back on over obviously sore muscles.

Dean was back, and he wasn’t leaving. Not this time.

Sam could feel the wounds he’d suffered by Lucifer’s hand buried just under the surface, knew that Dean was hiding much worse. They were weak apart, heaven and hell would rip them into little pieces if they were separate, of that Sam had no doubt, but together…

Together maybe they had a shot.


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Lucifer wandered through the broken hallways of the old building, feeling restless after being so long apart from his vessel. The one he wore was… itchy, uncomfortable, beneath him. He’d gotten used to the diversion, the game of molding Samuel into a form more suitable to his purposes, and now that that challenge had been blocked, he was rapidly becoming… bored.

Not that he didn’t possess unending patience – an eternity in the cage could make a saint out of a demon.

And not that he didn’t have plenty of other challenges to keep him occupied, but Samuel was… special. Lucifer longed for the day he could truly possess the boy in every sense of the word. It had been a long time indeed that Lucifer could lay claim to that particular emotion. Hunger, lust, yearning... the ache of it tasted sweet on his tongue.

He entered the room and its lone occupant uttered some small profanity and scooted back into the corner, as if that might protect it from Lucifer’s desires. He gazed down at the pitiful creature, understanding why it wished for death, but also knowing that its desires were irrelevant. It was a bit pathetic how much the human creatures valued themselves.

A sudden bout of courage fueled the creature, and it lurched up, spitting a glob of spittle on Lucifer’s face. It remained standing, although its body shook with fear, as if there was something to prove here.

“Tim,” Lucifer murmured calmly. “I see Belphegor let you out to play.” He reached up and scrapped his fingers over the slime, wiping it from his face and running his dampened hand along the front of Tim’s filthy shirt.

Tim closed his eyes, a small whimper escaping him before he fell to his knees in submission, his bravery gone as abruptly as it had come. “Please,” he begged, “Let me go. I’m no threat to you. Or… or kill me, if that’s the only way out, but please don’t let me live like this anymore. What use do you have of me?”

“When I take control of the boy, he will want to see you suffer, make you pay for what you did to him. Who am I to deny my vessel that right?”

“It wasn’t me, you arrogant fuck! It was the demon!” Tim yelled.

“Well, who says the boy ever needs to know?” Lucifer’s mouth twitched in amusement, continuing, “And who says the boy will even care? It was your failures that let the demon have access to you. He will be cursing your name for eternity for his rape, and I intend to indulge him where I can.” Lucifer was tiring of the banter. It was time.

“Belphegor,” Lucifer growled, “You can’t hide inside of the human forever. Come out. Now.”

The human’s eyes immediately blackened. “I was not…” it started to protest.

Lucifer’s hand snapped out, gripping the demon around its neck and slamming it against the wall. “Silence,” Lucifer hissed, faintly annoyed that the demon had managed to raise his temper. “I have a wish to see my vessel; this should not require talking by you.”

“Yes, my lord,” the demon replied. Lucifer allowed it to pull free of his grip so it could abase itself before its God.

“That is better.” Lucifer placed his hands on either side of the creature’s head, sinking his fingers into its skull to root around for the images he knew were stored there. Belphegor screamed in agony, but it was of no concern to him. It didn’t take long before he found what he was looking for. “Good boy,” he murmured absently, patting the demon on the head as it sank down in abject misery, whimpering to itself. “You will continue to wait here for me.”

The building faded around him, to be quickly replaced by a darkened motel room that reeked of recent sex. With barely a thought, Lucifer ensured that the two men entwined in each other’s arms would remain sleeping for the next several hours; it would not do for him to be discovered now. The lights flickered on, bathing the two boys in a surreal glow. They were beautiful, the desperation they felt for each other clear even as they slept. Lucifer moved to Sam first, pressing his lips lightly against the side of the boy's face.

He took Dean’s hand and pressed it against Samuel’s naked chest, directly over the mark. The bond pulsed between them, warm and powerful, and both boys stirred slightly, moaning softly in their sleep. He smiled. Their connection was definitely getting stronger. He released Dean’s hand and moved around the bed, lying down and pulling Dean’s naked body against his own, letting his fingers skim across the muscled chest.

“Soon,” he murmured, letting the slight body heat warm him. “Soon, I will be able to start grooming you to say yes to Michael. Then, once Sam lets me in, Michael will be mine as well. Thank you.” Lucifer pressed a kiss against Dean’s neck, then dropped his hand down to take Dean’s dick in hand possessively. “Michael will never know what hit him.”

He jerked on Dean’s dick a few times, pleased when it started to fill for him. Pressing light kisses against Dean’s warm, sweat drenched neck, he began stroking in earnest. Lucifer let his mind drift as he worked, pretending it was his own brother in his hand. When Dean finally came, Lucifer moaned Michael’s name, holding himself off, but allowing Dean’s spunk to be added to what was already there. The boys would never suspect a thing.

Lucifer sat up and leaned over Dean, pressing a final farewell kiss to Sam’s lips. “Soon, child. Soon there will be nothing left for you to worry about.”

The lights flickered out.

Lucifer was gone.

 

**~Le fin~**


End file.
